


The War for Prospit

by CaptainStormChaser



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bard!Gamzee, F/F, F/M, God tiers are literal, Horses, Knight!Dave, M/M, Mage!Meulin, Maid!porrim, Medieval AU, Orphans, Page!English, Page!Tavros, Prince!Dirk, Prince!Eridan, Rogue!Nepeta, Rogue!Roxy, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Sylph!Kanaya, War, Weapons, Witch!Feferi, Witch!Jade, bard!Cronus, boys bonding over animals, cursed!Mituna, heir!John, heir!equius, knight!karkat, knight!latula, lion king running sexy times, mage!sollux, maid!aradia, maid!jane, page!horuss, prince!Kurloz, prosecution of magic users, rogue!Rufioh, seer!Rose, seer!kankri, sylph!aranea, thief!Meenah, thief!vriska, witch burnings, witch!damara
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2018-07-20 00:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7383613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainStormChaser/pseuds/CaptainStormChaser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two kingdoms, both alike in dignity, in fair Skaia where we lay our scene, from ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean because blood tends to stain. From forth the fatal loins of these foes, a bunch of confused shit heads ruin their own lives, whose misadventured and screwed up horse shit doth lead to love and hella sweet strife. The fearful passage of their dunkassery and the continuance of the High Blood’s rage, which, but being murdered or something, I don’t know, naught could remove, is now the traffic of your browser history- the which, if you with a slight obsession with this fandom will attend, what here shall miss, our heroes shall strive to not fuck up.</p><p>A Medieval AU full of prophecy, magic, regicide, dark secrets, and of course the occasional new found love.</p><p>Rating may change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Dave Strider sat in a dim pub, listening to the boisterous chatter and the plucking of lute strings and singing of the bard playing in the corner. Leaning back in his wooden seat, head against the wall, eyelids barely cracked, he was asleep by all appearances. People generally left a sleeping man alone. And if someone didn’t, he was ready, arm resting across his stomach casually and fingers barely brushing the hilt of his sword.

The bard finished his show, bowing and thanking the audience many times before gathering the bag full of gold from the floor, sticky from years of spilled ale and inadequate mopping. This was Dave’s cue.

He approached the bard’s back, tapping him gently on the shoulder. The performer turned around and took in Dave before his smile fell.

“Shit.” Cronus muttered.

“Hey, Cronus.”

“And here I thought I was being sneaky, hiding from you in plain sight.” Cronus laughed weakly. “What does he want this time?”

“Your brother requests your presence.”

“Do I have a choice?” Cronus asked as he began to pack away his instrument and remove his whimsical hat.

Dave smirked. “Would he have sent me if you did?”

Cronus merely raised an eyebrow in response. Dave moved his head in the direction of the door, and Cronus followed him out with his rucksack he had conveniently kept behind him. Dave took note of it.

“Prepared for me, were you?”

“Never know whose home I’ll be invited to for the night.”

They walked around the pub, to the stables, where Cronus’s mare was, and where Dave’s stallion had waited while its master went inside.

“You still haven’t changed, Strider.” Cronus said once they were on the road. “All business, except when it amuses you.”

“And you’re arrogant as always, Ampora.” The horses galloped, leaving the small community dependent entirely on the inn in favor of passing through the city gates.

“Actually, as we are within city limits, it’s ‘My lord’ to you. Whether I abdicate my crown or not.”

“My humblest apologies, my lord. Might I hope to kiss your boot so that some of your Excellency’s grace might dust itself upon me?”

“What is my brother doing, with knights like you?” Cronus cast a sidelong glance at his companion.

“Oh, you know. He’s gotta make mistakes early in life. Probably why I’m captain of the watch now.”

Cronus barked a laugh as they approached the castle. “And you still use your little sarcastic remarks to brag.”

* * *

“YOU JUST SHUT YOUR FUCKIN’ MOUTH SOL!” Prince Eridan Ampora of Derse screamed at the grinning mage.

Sollux Captor plucked a grape from the bowl of fruit placed on the table next to him, examining it before popping it into his mouth. “Was that an order, _ser_?” He asked innocently. “Because I have some fairly interesting things to say. That is, of course, unless my business is not needed here.”

Eridan gritted his teeth, face red with rage. “No.”

“Ser, your brother is here.” The maid said, having been standing in the doorway for quite a while, waiting for a break in his tirade.

Eridan looked from Sollux to her, then to where Dirk was standing quietly and examining his fingernails. “You are dismissed, Aradia.” The maid nodded before leaving. “Dirk, can you handle this?”

The other prince stood up straight. “You couldn’t, but I’ll give it a shot.”

Eridan rolled his eyes before leaving the throne room in favor of meeting his brother in the entrance hall.

Dirk waited until he was gone to approach Sollux and sit in the seat Eridan had occupied before he started yelling. The younger prince liked to stand, because being taller made him feel he had more power.

“Nice.” Dirk commented. “Took less than a minute to set him off this time.”

The mage waved a hand in dismissal “He’s just bitter because he could never get any magic to work.”

“Now, onto business.” Dirk said, crossing his legs and placing two hands of intertwined fingers over his knee. “We were supposed to argue prices for information, but I think your usual fee will be good.” He removed a prepared sack of coins from beneath the chair, tossing them to Sollux, who pocketed it.

“That’s why I like you, Strider. You don’t mess around like Fishdick.”

Dirk shrugged with a smirk. “What can I say? It’s almost like I was born and raised to be king.”

The mage’s eyes began glowing faintly, one red and the other blue. Sollux cupped his hands together, opening them to reveal a newly conjured dark flame. He spread them apart, widening and flattening the fire, morphing it into a semitransparent glassy surface suspended in the air and crackling with an almost sinister energy.

Images began to flicker, becoming indistinct figures of people. One was blood red, running his hands over the pages of a book, the other ash grey and holding a crudely formed sword. “In Prospit, there are two brothers, orphans, taken in by a palace servant and a healer. The younger became a knight, one who is fated to fight your brother, big heroic moment of strife that defines both their futures, etcetera, but the elder is whom you want. He discovered abilities as a seer, and was able to secure a position for the crown. He’s predicted several deaths, double crosses, natural disasters, and Dersian border raids.”

Sollux met Dirk’s eyes through the projection’s glassy surface. “He’s someone you should keep in mind.”

“How so? Kill him? Capture him?” Dirk asked.

Sollux smiled and ceased his power. “However you take that is up to you. You will send several to Prospit, the bard I spoke of before, a knight with a heart of fire capable of forging time itself, and a seeress who is bathed in the light of darkness. That’s all I have for you, if I want to stay neutral. Which I do.”

“I can’t tell if that’s some sort of riddle, or just you choosing to be as cryptic and unclear as shit.

Sollux shrugged his facial expression, swiping his hand across the fading image and scattering it like dust amongst the air.

“I’ll give you twice the gold for more.” Dirk offered. “Not about Prospit.”

Sollux dusted off his hands, dislodging powdered sulfur that was now clinging to them. “Very well, but for information only, I won’t show you this time.”

“But-”

“Be wary, those who stare into the abyss.” Sollux said. “The leagues of the doomed have the capability to drive someone mad.”

Dirk palmed the small purse he carried at his belt, prepared carefully beforehand.

“What specifically, am I asking the damned this time?” Sollux inquired with a knowing smirk.

Dirk looked around, ensuring that the room was vacant and free of prying ears. “The usual.”

Sollux’s eyes closed, taking several deep breaths in near silence for a few moments. Every second pulsed within Dirk’s skin, every heart beat slow and grating until the mage opened his eyes. “It may benefit you to seek out the Lost Weeaboos.”

Sollux stowed the additional gold amongst the pockets and pouches of his robes before standing.

“That’s it? There has to be more! Please, just tell me, I’ll pay you whatever you want.” Dirk said. He hadn’t the heart nor shame to be embarrassed at his desperation, before a man who had seen Dirk at his worse, who he was certain had perceived things about him that even Dirk himself didn’t know.

“That’s all I have. My knowledge isn’t infinite, Strider.” Sollux said tersely before he sighed in defeat. “Look, I like you. I’d certainly rather see you king than Ampora. So here’s some advice that doesn’t comes from me, not the abyss: don’t tell them who you are. The monarchy isn’t exactly on good terms with the Weeaboos.”

The mage left, a little ways richer and feeling drained, steps teetering and eyes bloodshot.

Dirk watched him leave. Every time he asked Sollux, heard the catch of tongue on teeth that formed the lisp, he could feel himself getting closer to what he had been searching for for so long. Dirk Strider wanted nothing more than to find what he was missing in his idealistic life. Dirk didn’t want to be alone. He wanted to fend off the aching emptiness within his chest as he lay alone abed with naught but the burning stub of a tallow candle and his own thoughts for company. He’d daren’t tell anyone else of his evenings, only taken what sleeping draughts he could from physicians, for the fear of sounding like some inexperienced youth, bereft of any knowledge of the world. It was quite possible that he could very well never discover what he wished for. Or, if he in fact did, it would almost certainly be suspended torturously by circumstance and propriety, or, like it had for his father, by a belated meeting.

As any whimsical child of the pages of garbage novels meant to fill heads with fantasy, Dirk wanted to love, and to be loved.

* * *

Cronus Ampora looked at the high ceilings of the palace, elegant and impressive. Truly an incredible place to live in. He would know. He did. “‘For all its beauty, a cage nonetheless.’” He quoted from some long-dead poet he had learnt of in the library. He’d always had a good memory for songs and poems. Better, at least, than he had a head for politics, or languages, or propriety, for that matter.

“I hope you don’t mean that.” Eridan said, appearifying silently while Cronus had been reminiscing. “But as long as you do, I keep the crown, so I suppose it’s alright by me.”

“There’s a reason you called me here. I suggest you get on with it.”

Eridan’s expression turned sour. “I was hopin’ I might be able to recruit you for a mission a sorts. Sol has been hintin’ that we need you for somethin’.”

Cronus raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow skeptically. “You do everything that mage tells you to now? We should skip the ceremony and just name him king.”

Dave, who had been standing a little off to the side through all of this, cleared his throat.

Eridan shot him a harsh look. “You are excused, Ser Dave.”

“Thank you, your highness.” Dave said with a low bow, sincere words anything but before he left the palace entrance hall.

Dave walked down the hallway, no purpose or fixed destination to gravitate towards. He supposed he could see what his brother was doing…

And just like that, Dave found himself outside the open doors of the throne room, hearing Dirk’s voice in hoarse whisper bouncing off the floor.

Curious, Dave pressed his side to the doorway, peeking around the edge of the frame.

Dirk was seated across from whom Dave recognized as a frequent guest of the two princes. The mage that Eridan would bitch about for days on end before and after his visits. The man was a major discussion topic in the royal court in that time as well, regarded with both distrust and fascination.

Dave had only personally met the famous (or rather infamous, depending on how one chose to look at it) Sollux Captor once before. In truth, he had taken pains to avoid him after that first and final instance. It was not long after he had had it explained to him how unlikely it was he would ever be king. He was eleven, and a fourteen-year-old Dirk had just been crowned prince after their father had passed away and revealed on his deathbed the fact that he had a mistress and two other children. Dave’s sisters had still been making themselves at home in their new lavish palace bedrooms.

The mage seemed to never age back then, as well. He was an imposing figure, cloaked in grayish green robes that foretold doom. Dave had approached him, prepared with as much gold as he had been able to procure in a fortnight.

Sollux looked down slightly, the boy, tall as he was, not quite meeting eye level. A smirk of amusement adorned his face as one blue and one brown met the two of the latter.

“I command you to tell me what my purpose is.” Dave had said in the most regal voice he could muster, his hands clenched in fists and palms sweating profusely.

Sollux took the gold with a bored face and stored it in his robes before closing his eyes, glowing clouds of energy misting out from his tear ducts.

“It may benefit you greatly, should you search the palace courtyard for your calling at noon tomorrow.” He had said before continuing walking to his destination in the palace.

“Halt!” Dave had yelled after him, much like a petulant child accustomed to those he encountered falling down at his feet to please his every whim. “I command you-”

The mage stopped and turned around, snarl on his face stopping Dave from continuing. “No, you don’t. You are not a prince and I, not a subject of _any_ kingdom. _No one_ gives me orders. Especially not palace brats who have the gall to think I owe them anything.” The words had cut like a knife, straight through Dave’s ego, pampered and groomed from birth as it was by scores of nurses, governesses, tutors, and his own father.

Nonetheless, he had followed the mage’s advice, muttering curse words under his breath as he sat in the harsh sunlight. He encountered a pair of squires training with each other without form or finesse while their masters had sent them off for other tasks, and Dave had been invited to spar with them.

He had been escorted by his governess back to the castle with a bloody nose and busted lip, forced to explain how such things came to be to his brother, then immediately request that he be allowed begin training as a knight.

The discipline had done him good, transforming him into a respectable figure rather than just the prince’s lay about younger brother, as he would surely have become known.

Said prince was still in the throne room talking with Sollux while Dave had wasted his time with memories.

“That’s it? There has to be more! Please, just tell me, I’ll pay you whatever you want.” Dirk cried, voice rising with his apparent irritation, maybe panic.

“That’s all I have. My knowledge isn’t infinite, Strider.” Sollux let out an angry huff of breath, tone become more gentle. “Look, I like you. I’d certainly rather see you king than Ampora. So here’s some advice that doesn’t comes from me, not the abyss: don’t tell anyone who you are. The monarchy isn’t exactly on good terms with the Weeaboos.”

Dave knew much of the Weeaboos. Cursed creatures they were, raiding and robbing, ruining the ground in their wake, it seemed. Any attempts taken to flush them out resulted in circles being danced around the patrols and good men ending up dead. So far as Dave was concerned, Weeaboos were the scum of the earth, leaving nothing but misery and unrest in their wake.

Dave didn’t have long to think it over, because Sollux had left his seat and was moving to the door, steps wobbling a bit at the exertion.

The knight began walking down the hallway quickly enough to get away while staying silent.

“Well, well, well. What have we here?” The mage whispered, suddenly immediately behind Dave and not at all startling the absolute shit out him goddamn. “It would seem the brat is still skulking around like he owns the place.”

“Damn.” Dave whispered before turning around. “Good day, Mage Captor.” He pressed his fist over his heart, bowing quickly.

Sollux raised one eyebrow. “And you learned some manners since last time. I’m impressed.”

Dave said nothing, and Sollux retrieved the coin purse Dirk had paid him, placing it in Dave’s hand. The knight looked at the mage in confusion.

“Think of it as a personal investment. You interest me, Strider. Now watch out for stairs and remind your brother.”

“Remind him of what?”

The mage smirked yet again. “Who his brother and sister are.” Sollux vanished, Dave only catching a glimpse of feldgrau cloth slithering around the corner.

He glanced between the rest of the empty hallway and the gold in his hand for several moments, jumping out of his skin when an icy hand pressed to his shoulder.

A reserved chuckle followed behind him, and Dave spun around. “Rose! What the hell!”

“You seemed deep in thought.” His half-sister explained. “I assumed it was something I should awake you from, for fear of you hurting yourself.” She had her hands clasped behind her back. The picture of innocence, were it not for the black lip paint and devious gleam in her eyes. “Was that the mage Captor I saw?”

“Yeah. He came over to tell me some stuff about my future and generally be creepy. But I was just like ‘no, please continue and tell me how scores of innocents will be slaughtered this afternoon. Go into detail. I want you to paint a mental picture of the innards spilling.’ And then he just absconded the fuck out of here.”

Rose crinkled her nose. “I don’t like him. His methods just seem sinister and self-serving. The dead seem like an unreliable source of probable situation outcomes when compared to the power of light.”

“Please. Everyone knows you’re just itching for the chance to get into contact with the Horrorterrors. What are you doing down here anyways, mingling with the mediocres?”

“I had the image of the young master Eridan saddling his brother with an adventurous exploit pass through my mind, and thought I might investigate.”

“Is that creep still hitting on you?”

Rose shook her head. “I’m afraid his attempts wore themselves out when he belatedly realized that my illegitimate birth prevented the law from recognizing me as a princess of the royal family, and matrimony between us would not allow him to become king.”

“At least it’s useful for one thing then. Introducing douche- repellent. For all your perverted prince avoiding needs. Dad really knew what he was doing, saving the male children for my mom because no girl should have to marry an Ampora.”

“To do so would be the horrible conclusion of the family agreement. But I suppose it must happen someday. There can only be so many consecutive generations of exclusively sons. Though we can hope that the Amporas will bear a lovely bride someday. Or perhaps a tolerable groom.”

Dave scoffed. “I doubt it. That agreement isn’t even relevant in this day and age. Don’t even need a bride and groom to crap out a kid anymore.”

“Careful, or someone might accuse you of being overly eager to marry an Ampora.” Rose grinned. “Besides, we both know Prospit would launch a full-scale invasion if the heir to the kingdom were conceived of magic.” She hummed lightly under her breath. “Well, I would love to see how the situation I envisioned will turn out before the time to witness such things passes. Will you be joining me?”

Dave shrugged. “I already told Prince Eridick that I had to leave because I had more important shit to do than ogle his uptight ass swaying around in those emasculating peach pantaloons.”

“Did you _say_ that something was otherwise more important?” Rose asked.

Dave raised one eyebrow. “It was implied.” He sighed at the seer’s coy smile, knowing it was actually quite likely that she already knew his answer and it was already decided for him in the spheres of the universe or whatever. “You said it might be interesting?”

“It was implied.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? Finish my other incomplete works instead of revising this and posting it after like two years of sitting on my laptop?
> 
> Anyways, I hope you like this so far and didn't cringe too hard reading the summary.
> 
> Please leave a comment if you want to tell me what I'm doing wrong or possibly right.
> 
> EDIT 8/7/16: Rerevised the chapter, made some things a little easier to understand and just overall improving the quality of my verbs. Damn verbs.


	2. Chapter Two

Sollux Captor liked power.

It wasn't a power-mad lust for control and world dominance, merely the need to be able to make things he wanted happen, and to stop things he didn't. He had been around for over 400 years. He knew how to get what he wanted. But right now he didn't know what he wanted.

Thoughts weighed on his mind as he made his way to his inn, knees weaker and purse heavier than when he had left for the palace a few hours before.

All the confidence and smirks were gone from the mage's face. Sollux wanted nothing more than to fall to the ground and lose himself in sleep, but that wasn't an option for most, and he was no exception. But he was still tired.

Tired of the same old work, tired of profiting from the same old kingdoms' war, tired of traveling from Prospit to Derse constantly relaying what information he could extract from the doomed while he grew wealthy without any worthy distraction in this century-long lull in the advancement of science and art.

The innkeeper saw his face and let him traverse the stairs, almost tripping, without asking him if he wanted dinner. She was used to his moods, after he had been staying there on and off for almost ten years.

When Sollux opened the door to his room, he saw his brother sitting on the end of his bed, reading with his tongue between his teeth.

When Sollux closed the door, Mituna noticed him, smile breaking across the elder brother's face.

"Sollux!" Mituna exclaimed, scrambling off the bed with his finger reserving his spot in the book. "How was your trip to the castle?"

Sullox shrugged, taking to opportunity to roll his shoulders back in an effort to loosen the tension. "Same as usual."

Mituna looked down at his hand, as though remembering that there was a literary work attached to it. He opened it, trying to find his spot on the page. "What does this word mean?"

Sollux's eyes found the indicated word in the book that had been thrust in his face. "'Rationality.'" He read. "If something has rationality, it makes sense." He looked back up at his twin, at the brown and blue eyes that mirrored his own through the dark bangs.

"We might need to cut your hair soon," he muttered, brushing the bangs from Mituna’s forehead.

"No! Don't!" Mituna cried, hands grabbing his head protectively. "Tulip said she likes it." He said quietly a moment later.

Sollux sighed and rolled his eyes. "I'm sure she would no matter how long it is." Seeing that Mituna wasn't relenting, Sollux added, "I'll wait until we get back to Prospit, and she can tell me if I'm taking off too much. Deal?"

Seeing his brother smile so sincerely like that and nod his head at the mention of returning to the other kingdom made Sollux's day only half as horrible.

"Did you already eat?" Sollux asked. He immediately recognized the ashamed expression on Mituna's face. The one the older brother got whenever he had something he was afraid to tell Sollux. "What happened?" He raised one eyebrow at Mituna, waiting.

"I was eating, and some men at the bar kept looking at me and talking and laughing at me."

Sollux set his jaw. "Do you know why they laughed?"

"Because I-"

"No, Mituna." Sollux said firmly. "It wasn't anything you did. It's because they will have very boring lives all in the same place doing the same thing day after day. When they see someone who has done great things and still will do even greater things, they can't believe that anyone could be so amazing and they just laugh so that they feel better."

After reading to Mituna, who insisted that he preferred listening to Sollux read over reading himself, for a few hours, Sollux blew out the candle and settled into his own bed for the night. He was just starting to drift off when the edge of the bed dipped under another's weight, and Mituna climbed under the blanket next to Sollux.

Sollux was tired.

He was tired of people hurting his brother.

* * *

Rose was rather impressed with Dirk's composure. He was simply watching the two Amporas argue, waiting to tell them what he had learned from the mage. She had already been forced to warn Dave against interference twice.

Dirk had had the good sense to tell the guards to leave them, as the battle was quite entertaining from Rose's perspective, off to the side of the room with a prefect view as Cronus grappled with Eridan's beloved hair while simultaneously (more or less) avoiding the jabs aimed at his stomach.

Taking the initiative she had come there to take, Rose nudged one overly-stuffed violet armchair forward a few inches, clipping the elbow of a passing Cronus, causing him to fall backwards into the chair and Eridan to fall to the floor on his hands and knees.

"Cod," Eridan gasped.

"Nice timin', Lalonde." Cronus said with a shit eating grin, lounging in the chair sideways.

"Thank you, Rose." Dirk said. "Now that that's all settled, we have a job for you, Cronus."

The bard raised an eyebrow. "An' what exactly does this 'job' entail?"

"Yes," Eridan said, dusting himself off as he stood. "Do tell."

Dave remained slouched against the wall will his arms crossed even as returned to her place next to him with her hands clutched together behind her back. He allowed his eyes to slide closed. If one wasn't accustomed to this habit, one would think the knight had fallen asleep.

But Rose knew that his eyelids were barely parted, idly listening and waiting for a point for him to take interest in.

That moment appeared around the time when Dirk mentioned that the bard was to be accompanied a seeress and a knight.

"Bro." Dave said, his three fellow royal sons all turning their heads in his direction.

Rose raised her hand, giving a demure smile and polite wave.

"No." Dirk said firmly. "Absolutely not."

"Oh come on," Dave said. "It's not like there's anyone better you can send."

"He's got a point there." Cronus said, using his arms to sit himself up. "Whoever goes is gonna to be watchin’ my back, and I gotta trust 'em to do it. Dave, I trust. Kitten, I trust."

* * *

After a great deal of bullshit arguing amongst the occupants of that room, it was decided that Dave, Rose, and Cronus would venture to Prospit accompanied by Dave's loyal page, Horuss, as a measure of additional protection and to keep the appearances their cover story would require. No one outside that room besides Horuss and the mage who had advised them to in the first place would know when they were going, or where they were going to. Three days later, travel preparations were complete and the group awoke at dawn and left the palace incognito on horseback.

Their trip would take nearly a week, having to wrap around the woods between the kingdoms and create the illusion that they were coming from one of Prospit's neighboring kingdoms rather than taking the straightforward trail that was heavily patrolled and guarded by both sides, barring passage to anyone without proper authorization.

After they had gotten out of the city, they set an easy gait in the direction of the rising sun, Dave in the lead and Horuss taking up the rear. Their only regret was the timing of the trip. That day in the capital city of Derse was the long-awaited summer festival.

The summer festival was a wonderful event, held annually for as far back as anyone who was not a sorcerer who trifled with fate and had cheated death for centuries could remember. The festival was centered in the town square, booths and tents and stalls and stands stretching out through the city streets. There were street performers street performing, traders trading, storytellers storytelling, children childrening, all making a wonderful day to celebrate the beginning of summer. Torches blazed late into the night, musicians were playing a near constant continuous harmony of a hundred different tunes. It was only through the cover of early-rising festival organizers that they were able to leave the city without drawing any attention to themselves.

* * *

After seeing his brother and half-sister off in the early light, Dirk dressed plainly, only a simple shirt and woolen leggings, arms ending in leather gauntlets. Nothing to attract attention in the crowded town square, and also nothing Eridan would allow him to wear for fear of catching peasantry.

Those were actual words that had come out of his mouth at one point. Seriously.

Unfortunately, that meant Dirk had to sneak out through the kitchens in order to reach his current location, the town square and center of the festival's activity. The city of Derse was aglow with celebration, banners hanging from every location, people flocking the street shows and merchant tents.

If his information was correct, he should find a tent on the north end of the square, where a witch was selling potions and services.

His eyes scanned the crowd, searching for signs of his quarry.

A soft green one caught his eye, edge of the plaza and closed structure, where the others were opened to welcome costumers.

Investigatively, Dirk pulled back the entrance flap, peeking inside. The area he could see was empty, a screen dividing the space into two separate rooms. What he could see was a table with several herbs spread across it in neat piles, as well as a stack of well-worn books and a mortar and pestle.

He stepped inside, looking around. He heard the witch before he saw her, the merry tune she was humming betraying her.

"Oh, hi there." She greeted, smiling brightly. "My name is Feferi."

"Dirk." He responded with a slight tilt of his head.

"Is there anything perchticular you need?" She asked.

Dirk nodded, taking in her appearance. She had waist-length brown hair and was dressed in tan robes, the rune of life on her chest in the same color as the tent.

"Yeah, I need to find someone, and I was hoping you could help me."

Feferi grabbed the second book from the stack, opening the tome and thumbing to the section she was looking for.

"Alright, Dirk. If you have anything of theirs, that is helpful," she looked up at him, and he shook his head. "No? Whale that's too bad, but it could still work. Do you have a name? That is sometides enough to trace them."

"I have a name." Dirk replied. "The Lost Weeaboos."

Feferi froze, sharpening. "I-I'm sorry? Come again?"

"I am looking for the Lost Weeaboos, and I heard you could help me find them."

Feferi's lip trembled for a moment, unable to break eye contact. Then she was running, book hitting the ground after she had already made it through the back of the tent.

Dirk sprinted after her, following the tan form and weaving between festival-goers. She made a turn into an alley, avoiding a march of royal guardsmen, but soon found herself at a dead end.

She nearly collided with the wall, Dirk catching up to her and standing between her and escape. The witch panted with the exertion of running, keeping her back to the wall in an act of defense.

"What do you want from me?" She asked, almost shaking with fear.

"I’m not going to hurt you. Like I said, I hear you have connections to people I want to get a hold of."

"I can't help you." She insisted, a color risen in her cheeks from running. "I'm not associated with them,"

"You're lying." Dirk says perceptively. "Just let them know I'm looking for them. I need their help."

Something poked Dirk between the ribs from behind, and it didn't take a genius to realize that the hand now tight on his arm was a manner of keeping him anchored for the future possibility of driving a blade into his back.

"The lady said no, buddy." A woman's voice said. "I think you should leave her alone."

Feferi dropped the ruse of helplessness, obviously a guise to help her accomplice approach Dirk unseen.

"Are you alright, Fef?" The newcomer asked.

The witch giggled. "Of course! I would never let anemoneone catch me unawhale."

"Good, good, because I was hoping you could help me keep this one under control."

With a shove and a spin, Dirk was placed with his back to the wall, the two women in front of him.

"Now, what was your message for the Weeaboos?" She asked, narrowing her (shockingly familiar) pink eyes behind the dark blue mask that hid her face.

* * *

"I hope you have a good reason for wantin' to eat with me, because I have important shit to do." Eridan grumbled.

"My apologies." Dirk replied, once again grateful that sarcasm was not a finite substance that he was wasting his supply of on the younger prince. "I thought I might take the opportunity to notify you that I am going on a hunting expedition."

"Huntin'? Why would you do that, exactly?"

Dirk shrugged. "Get away for a while. Give me the chance to clear my head."

Eridan rolled his eyes. "How many men will you be takin' with you? 'Cause we're not exactly overstaffed, you know."

"I had thought I'd go alone, actually."

"Fine. I just hope you know that you're leavin' me alone with Zahhak when he visits. That's pretty fuckin' selfish of you."

"You could use some more time with the nobles. Getting along with them is important in keeping their loyalty. Besides. You love being in charge."

Dirk met his contact under the clock tower the next night, after the town was cleared of the bulk of the festival. He felt a reverberation throughout his body as midnight struck. The initial sound of the first bell toll made him jump, mutter a quick curse, and be glad no one was there to witness his moment of intense paranoia.

Or so he thought.

"Whatcha so afraid of, kid?" A voice asked out of thin air, a woman appearifying from the shadows of the tower. "Scared of the dark?"

"I suppose you're my contact?" Dirk suggested.

"One in the same." She replied with a toothy grin. "You act like you were expecting someone else."

"I assumed it would be the one I arranged this meeting with, maybe the witch."

The contact's eyes narrowed. "Listfin, I don't trust you as far as I could throw you. Our leader thought it would be a good idea to send me, conseaderin' you threatened my baby fishter yesterday, because I won't hold back if you need a good poke." She reached into the shadows of the tower, her fingers wrapping around something and pulling it into the light. It was a masterly-crafted double trident, which she twirled easily with one hand, showing that she had spent a good deal of time practicing, and knew damn well how to use it. "And frankly, I agree with swim."

 _Oh gods, more fish puns._ Dirk thought. "I guess we should be going then? Wouldn't want to keep them waiting."

"After you." She said, pointing her trident in the direction of the city gates. "Name's Meenah, buoy the wave."

Out of the city, over the bridge, onto the main road and straight forward at a curve saw them among the trees, gradually growing thicker. After spending quite a bit of time navigating the woods in the dark with an incredibly sharp three-pronged instrument at his back, Meenah grabbed Dirk's arm and pulled him to a stop.

"I just wanted to wet you know, if there is even the slightest indication that you are pullin' one over on us, I'll gut you myself."

"Aren't we past this bouy now?" Dirk asked, throwing in the pun to lighten the severe mood.

"Not even close. The clamp's just up ahead."

Through the dark of the trees, Dirk could just make out a light. When they were closer, he could hear voices.

"Exshellant job keeping guard." Meenah said sarcastically and rather loudly, taking Dirk into a clearing.

At least a dozen pairs of eyes looked at him, night silent but for the cracking of the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no romance, but plenty of transitiony plot building-type things.
> 
> Leave a comment if you like and let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter Three

One Weeaboo stood up, walking around the fire. "So, you're the one who's looking for us." He gave Dirk an up and down. "What's your name?"

"Dirk."

The man smiled wide, sincerely, and stretched a hand out in front of him. "Nice to meet you, Dirk. The name's Rufioh."

Dirk clasped the hand, shaking it.

"Come sit next to the fire, and we'll talk." Rufioh went on, returning to where he had been sitting before.

Dirk followed him, the Weeaboos regarding him with suspicion and curiosity.

"So tell me, Dirk. What made you want to seek us out?"

"I want to travel. See more than just Derse. Maybe fall in love. If you would allow me, I'll follow you wherever you plan to go from here."

Rufioh grinned. "If it's freedom you're after, you've come to the right place. Unfortunately, for security reasons, I can't tell you where we're going next. But I can say this; it's definitely not Derse. And if that sword isn't just for show," he tipped his head in the direction of Dirk's katana strapped to his heavy-laden pack. "Then we could definitely use you on the road."

"I'd be glad to help."

"Bangarang! Alright, let's get you introduced. Meenah and Feferi, you've met, over there are Meulin and Nepeta," He pointed to two similar looking young ladies conversing using solely a complicated series of hand gestures that Dirk recognized as Skaian Sign Language. "Gamzee," he gestured to the minstrel playing a rather strangely shaped lute embossed with brass. The young woman on Rufioh's other side, who had been holding onto his arm and listening to their entire conversation up to that point, was dubbed his girl, Damara.

Rufioh scanned the camp for a moment. "Does anyone know when the scouting party's going to be getting back?" He asked the entire group. There were several shared glances and shaken heads before someone passed through the edge of the tree line and called out.

"Right about now." It was the pink-eyed one girl, the same one who had arranged Dirk's meeting, though now unmasked.

"Dirk, you've met her already, but that with her is Jade," girl in black witch's robes with long dark hair. "And Vriska." Tall, willowy girl with red boots. "Well, scouts're back, so it's lights out, everyone." Rufioh said, and they began gathering their things together for the night.

"Dirk, just spread out wherever there's room." Rufioh instructed. "Who wants to take guard tonight?" When no one volunteered, Rufioh just picked them. "Meenah, Nepeta, and Roxy. Rox, you have first shift."

Dirk's eyes snapped to the thus far unnamed rogue with familiar pink eyes and a familiar name, but hoped if she was who he thought she was, she wouldn't give him away. He spent what felt like a few hours drifting in and out of sleep on his blanket, a hand covering his mouth at one point.

He tried to sit up, but was stopped by another hand on his chest holding him down. His eyes began to adjust to the light, and he noticed a form over him. He was looking into eyes he knew well. Roxy's eyes, face finally bereft of the mask.

Seeing he was calm, she removed her hand from his mouth. "Hello, Dirk." She said.

"Roxy." He greeted, taking on the same degree of whisper as she.

"Well, you've found me. I guess you're going to drag me back to Derse now.”

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Then why are you here?" She asked, confusion and irritation threatening to bristle.

"Like I told Rufioh, I want to see the world."

"Bullshit. Now tell me why you're really here."

Dirk laughed softly. "You always did know me, Rox. Fine, I was told that following the Weeaboos would help me find something."

"Who told you?" She asked, once it dawned on her.

"Captor." They said in unison. Roxy looked at Dirk as though she was seeing him for the first time, wrapping her arms around his torso. He returned the embrace.

"Four years is a long time." She breathed, more to herself.

"So will you keep my secret?" Dirk asked when she pulled back from him.

"If you keep mine." Roxy replied, her expression softening. "How's Rose?"

Dirk shrugged. "Great. She's an amazing seeress, very smug and witty. She's on a delegation mission right now, with Dave."

"She'll keep him out of trouble." Roxy whispered with a smile. "G'night, Dirk."

"Goodnight, Roxy. It's good to have you back."

* * *

Dirk was awoken the next morning by a light kick to the side, eating a quick breakfast before the group was moving north. He was impressed with their organization. Rufioh would make orders, everyone would follow with the realization that it was for their good as a whole. But besides that, everyone was an equal. They all carried their own on their backs, those who had the strength taking extra without complaint. They spoke while they walked, the atmosphere lively even as they grew tired and the hours passed.

The Weeaboos seemed to open up to Dirk, first Roxy and Meenah involving him in their conversation, then Feferi, when he was given the chance to apologize for the way he had chased her down. The witch was forgiving, happy to have made a new "frond".

Jade was a bright character, likewise. Nepeta and her older sister were very friendly. By the end of the day, Dirk had personally met almost all of them, learnt that Meenah and Feferi were native to Derse, Meulin was deafened in the raid on their village that orphaned her and Nepeta, Vriska wanted to become a pirate like her mother who had been executed hours after her birth, and Damara _could_ speak Skaian, but chose not to for the sole purpose of no one but Rufioh being able to converse with her.

Gamzee was a bit strange. Nothing seemed to faze him. He was unburdened by the massive load he was carrying, lute remaining silent but still in his hands as though he were to leap into melody at any moment.

The sun began to set, and they found a suitable campsite further in the woods, following a worn path. This was evidently a way they traversed frequently. A fire was quickly assembled and food and ale spread around.

Gamzee plucked the strings of his lute lightly, and the evening was beginning with a hearty tune. It was one Dirk recognized, and he joined in.

Three more songs later, Rufioh shushed everyone saying he had heard a sound in the woods. "I'm serious." He said, glancing amongst everyone. "What if," he breathed dramatically. "It's Orphaner Dualscar?"

There were groans heard in chorus around the fire.

"Reelly Rufioh?" Feferi asked. "You want to try _that_ again?"

"Just indulge me, please." Rufioh requested.

Meenah sighed, her tone exaggerated. "Fine, Nitram. Who the glub is Orphaner Dualscar?"

Rufioh brightened. "Orphaner Dualscar is the vile prince of Derse. He sent out his armies and burned farms and villages, but always spared the children."

"You mean Prince Orpheus." Dirk interrupted.

Many eyes turned to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Roxy shaking her head at him, face serious.

"Dualscar wasn't a prince as far as I'm concerned." Rufioh said. "More of a murderous tyrant. Damara and I both grew up in an orphanage that he single-handedly filled."

Dirk heaved in a breath to calm himself, keeping his gaze steady. "Sorry. Not my place.”

That seemed to placate the Weeaboo leader. The story continued, telling of the horrible deeds of Orpheus, all things Dirk already knew of from his studies and what he had heard from the man himself.

Eridan and Cronus's father was a good naval leader and strategist, but not much beyond that. He was cold to the young Strider princes, especially after lady Strider died giving birth to Dave and Broderick refused to remarry. Thus, there would be no Strider princess to wed Cronus. Of course, 'Dualscar', as he was called behind his back on account of the parallel slashes across his face, couldn't resist regaling tales of his deeds to the young Strider boys alongside his own sons, a warm hearth, and a bottle of wine. But Dirk couldn't say he was sad when the prince died of a heart attack two years ago. Guy was kind of a prick.

Unsurprisingly, the feats of battle Dirk had heard were rather different from what he heard now. Glorious victories now became impossibly cruel assaults. Bold strikes against Prospit were told as slaughters of innocents. The mighty prince was repainted a murderous tyrant.

Just as Rufioh was finishing up the last of his set of stories, he stopped suddenly. "Did you hear that?" He asked.

"Enough with the bullshit," Vriska said with a roll of her eyes, drawing the pair of L's out for at least four times their intended value. "We're not falling for it."

"I heard it too." Jade said, glancing around behind her at the trees.

"I'm sure it's nothin'." Meenah interjected.

Nepeta caught something out of the corner of her eye just a second too late. "It's an ambush!" She cried not a moment before uniformed soldiers flocked into the clearing, surrounding them and holding various weapons pointed inward threateningly.

“Don’t move!” One of them barked. “You are under arrest by order of the crown.”

Rufioh glanced around, seeing they were outnumbered. “Stand down.” He told the Weeaboos.

It took a moment, but there was a nearly unanimous movement. Weapons were dropped.

"Drop it!" A nervous looking recruit barked at Dirk.

Gritting his teeth angrily, the prince slid his half-drawn katana back into its sheath. Quick working at his belt saw the sword falling flatly on the grass.

A deep, sickening laugh split the air. Attention turned to Gamzee, who plucked a string of his lute. He seemed to lazily turn his eyes to the recruit. "We got any music-loving motherfuckers here?" He began to alternate slowly between two dissonant notes.

Dirk saw a window, and he took it. The dagger hidden in his coats he hurled at one of the two guards cornering Roxy.

The man yelped and dropped dead like a stone. Roxy rolled onto her back, snatching up her crossbow and firing a bolt into the neck of another unfortunate soldier. All magic users launched quickly into action, Dirk watching as Gamzee struck the recruit across the head with his instrument, the man crumpling to the ground.

With all the soldiers incapacitated, Rufioh let out a sharp bark of laughter and took a swig from the leather flask at his hip. He clapped Dirk on the back. "Dirk," the Weeaboo said. "That was some bangarang thinking."

Damara said something Dirk couldn't quite understand, to which Rufioh nodded.

"You're right, doll. Dirk, at this point it's only fair that we tell you where we're going. I mean, we're almost there anyways."

Dirk pulled his dagger from the back of the first soldier he killed, looking at the militant coat he wore.

"Prospit..." Dirk said with awe, pinching the light colored fabric between his fingers.

* * *

Eridan's nails were pressing so hard into the palms of his hands, he feared he would break skin and/or nail. He wasn't angry, no. He was merely enraged at the sense of passive-aggressive boredom coming from the palace guest across the table from him.

"Tell me, your highness, how is the militant discipline at the current time?" Lordling Zahhak droned.

"Impeccable." Eridan answered. "As if you could expect anything else from the royal guard."

Awkward silence. Eridan snapped for Aradia to refill his goblet. He felt he would need quite a bit more wine for this evening to go well.

Dinner concluded after more awkward small-talk, and Eridan was glad to be rid of Zahhak. Giving Aradia the task to show him to his bedchambers, the prince retired.

It was the next morning that Aradia was required to rise before the sun, tending to every whim of Zahhak now amongst her chores. This was sure to be a delight. If Eridan was lucky, Zahhak might not even learn of Aradia’s lineage and complain at the outrage of being served by one so baseborn.

* * *

A knight strode to the city gates of Prospit, watching others entering the city be stopped by guards and inspected. The sun was just reaching over the horizon, heating the air of dawn.

"This isn't going to work." Cronus whispered, only loud enough for his party to hear.

"Be calm, they have no reason to suspect us." Rose said. "They aren't looking for spies, but rather necromancers."

"Quiet!" Dave hissed at them.

They had gotten through the borders easy enough, spewing some bullshit story about seeking work in the glorious golden kingdom of light and opportunity. But now they were in the heart of the enemy kingdom, pair of Prospitian guards moving people along the line. A line that was shortening quickly.

"Halt!" They were ordered, captain of the watch examining them each carefully as he walked past. His eyes settled on Rose as he was returning to the front.

"Remove your hood." Rose complied, orange cloak settling about her elegantly. Dave didn't know how the hell she was so reserved. Especially when the captain opened her saddle bags, removing a weighty tome with symbols inscribed into the front.

"What is this?" He barked.

"A book." She replied with false sincerity.

"Please excuse my sister." Dave said quickly. "She is not used to the company of others. What you are holding is," he paused for only a moment, trying to think quickly.

"It's my study journal." Rose interjected.

The captain opened the book, flipping through the pages quickly. "It's blank." He stated accusingly.

"I never said I had studied." She said.

The captain stuffed the book back in the bag none too gently, waving them into the city.

Waiting until they were outside of hearing range of the guards, Dave said, "Really, Rose? You brought one of your creepy occult books?"

"It can only be read by a seer. Besides, what else was I going to use as a diversion from my cue ball?"

"Why'd you bring the cue ball?" Cronus just short of whined. "In case you haven't noticed, we are in the witch burning capital of the world."

"Should we need help. In case _you_ haven't noticed, we have no idea where to go from here, or even the name of whom we are supposed to be finding."

"Wonderful point, Rose. Horuss, how are we on supplies?" Dave asked.

"We are lacking in food, but I should be able to procure some water from the nearest town well, as well as allow the horses to drink and organize board for them."

"Alright." Dave said, dismounting his heavyset destrier, the others following suit. He grabbed some of their gold for the trip and slid it into the pouch at his belt. "Horuss, take care of the water and horses. In an hour, we meet at," Dave scanned the street they were on, making out an inn sign. "'The Golden Moon'."

The page nodded, leading the four mounts away.

"I do so hope he can handle Maplehoof." Rose said as an afterthought. "She can be rather spirited without a firm hand. Or two."

"It's freaky how you do that." Cronus said. "Like you know something is going to happen, and you just let it so you can screw with everyone."

"'Tis not my place to change fate. Only to push us to a fruitful outcome."

"Alright, if you two are done dicking around, I think there's a street market up ahead." Dave snapped.

Prospitians walked about said market, bargaining, talking, laughing. If the guards weren't dressed in light grey and white and the banners waving gold in place of purple, Rose might have been able to convince herself that they were still in Derse.

Cronus excused himself from them, promising to be at the inn in one hour. Dave was examining apples with a scrutinizing eye, never one to select a poor fruit.

Rose was able to wander, but kept her brother in sight. she noticed a pair that seemed to stand out from the crowd. A drawn young man with dark hair, who was nearly shouting at a figure cloaked in crimson.

She felt as though she should intervene, but the apparent victim was cackling when Rose was close enough to hear.

"Oh, Karkles. You really don't trust me, do you?"

"Of course I don't! You somehow managed to coerce me into coming with you, and all the while you can't stop making jokes." This 'Karkles' complained.

"Like you really needed much coercion. You were _dying_ to come with." She wrapped her fingers around a trinket on the merchant's stall and raised it to her face for a moment before lowering it to its place again.

Rose busied herself with the stall behind them, trying to blend in.

"Excuse me," the cloaked woman said, turning to Rose and revealing her face. She had auburn hair, and was pretty from what Rose could see, what with the red scarf tied over her eyes. Blind. "That is a lovely shade of tangerine you are wearing."

"Thank you. Your cloak is magnificent." Rose replied smoothly.

Karkles stepped between them. “Sorry about Terezi. No need to call the guards, official palace seer, perfectly legal.”

“Oh, don’t mind Karkat.” Terezi extended her hand, pinching the young man’s cheek in a manner reminiscent of an overbearing nursemaid. “He just likes being my little protector for a day.”

Rose nodded, smiling politely. Dirk had said a red auraed seer and a charcoal knight, had he not? There was in fact a sword at Karkat’s hip, his posture sharp. Perhaps this mission would be simpler than first thought.

Carefully, Rose extended the tendrils of her own sight, fighting the need to close her eyes for ease of clarity. It would seem that Karkat was indeed grey, though Terezi was in fact a bright teal.

Terezi smiled broadly at Rose. “Don’t think I didn't feel that. You’re a seer too!”

“Mind you don’t say that too loud.” Rose replied. “I’m afraid to many prophecy is still considered on par with necromancy.”

Terezi waved a hand dismissively. “Please. Stick with me, and no one will give you any trouble.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's crawled up Dave's ass? Jebus.
> 
> I haven't updated anything in a hella long time, so thank you for bearing with me. I'm afraid time to write is becoming scarce with the beginning of the school year and all these FucKINg AP ClASSes that I haven't the level of organization to handle without eating coffee grounds for breakfast.
> 
> Anyways, leave a comment to tell me exactly how I'm doing everything wrong,  
> or possibly right(?),  
> and stay tuned!
> 
> Or not. I generally take a while to update, and you should turn off your devices every so often to keep them all functional and shit.
> 
> Be prepared. After this, I don't know how long, we're going to start delving into the *backstories* with *feels*.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The city of Prospit, golden and gleaming and full of cute dorky pages with nice green eyes.  
> But first; the origin of a pair of brothers.
> 
> Some graphic material

Eight miles from the grand city of Prospit, a house of brittle wood sits perched upon a cliff, shoddy building testament to the expectation of a grandparent or great-grandparent that a sturdier home might one day take its place once settled into success, arrangement a testament to their having little idea the great complexities of farming. For all the splendor of the hill, one sharp granite cliff and gentle grassy slopes on three sides, crash of waterfall and mist not far away rising up at dawn, single window of the house’s loft offering a view to a young child of the glory of the palace in the distance, this was no place to be granted to an inexperienced yeoman.

This was a plot better suited to a second child of a successful farmer, one who could grind their heels into the rocky soil, hold a blade of the tough grass before their eyes, and immediately realize that there was little hope of farming this spit of land, quickly seeking work in the city or haggling away the last of their family trinkets for a pair of sturdy herd animals.

The yeoman was not one, and they did not.

A few generations down the line, the soil was still rocky, and the grass still tough. A clay brick well now existed down the foot-worn path, a single stringy muscled goat inside a crooked fence nibbled at the grasses that it and its descendants might have excelled on were it not for the silently persisting stones in its kidneys.

An olive skinned young boy with shaggy hair ran bare footed down the hill, wooden bucket swinging in his fist and oversized sweater draping over a thin body. He slowed clumsily before the edge of the well as young ones do, body not yet accustomed to the discrepancies of speed that accompanied uneven ground.

Tiny hands grappled for the rope, tying a tight knot to the handle of the bucket and leaning on tip-toe over the well, watching the bucket fall as his hands grasped tightly to the rope, waiting until he felt the pull of the filling bucket before he began to slowly draw the rope back, hand over hand.

The filled bucket in hand, moving very slowly so as not to spill, the boy climbed the hill once more, night since fallen.

The quiet sobs of the mother disturbed the boy, the wooden shudders on the windows just opened enough for a pair of grey eyes to peek inside. He watched the parents talk in hushed tones, both clearly distressed, again, over food, and money, and how they would stay warm that winter, especially as Mother’s belly grew round with child.

The boy watched with pursed lips, making a loud show of approaching the door so as to not wrack his parents with the guilt they often exhibited when caught discussing such things within earshot of their son.

* * *

Gazing at the palace in the distance had always seemed so far off for Kankri, magical and brilliant. It still did, even out this window, great walls and grandiose, spiraling towers encased in glass within sight but nonetheless out of reach to those within Miss Peregrine’s Mendicant Shelter.

Karkat was crying in the next room over.

Karkat was always crying.

Perhaps the bitterness of a child resigned to the awfulness of the only life they’d ever known, clustered in too-small rooms and not enough to eat, doctors coming in every other day smelling heavily of garlic and herbs.

Kankri had had only a few minutes spent in his brother’s company since Mother had caught the sickness, her skin growing pallid and covered in pustules.

Father was gone.

That was all Kankri had been told.

He had known, however, that Father had been taken out behind the shelter and orphanage, to the large space now almost perpetually occupied by a great bonfire, forms carried out wearing naught but a wrapping of bedsheets and thrown whole into the pyre, the smell they made horrendous while a cleric recited over and over again funeral rites from the Writ of Croak for each heap of ashes that would flutter up to the sky and paint the snow a perpetual charcoal grey.

He had known, because Miss Peregrine had held Kankri as he fell asleep that night, done her best to smile at him as gently as a moth’s wings beating at the windows, even while the boy could hear his mother’s sobbing in the next room. He’d been able to see it in his mind clearly, watch as his father’s still body was found among the ill with flies dancing across his skin and his own sick crusted at his lips, nearly dragged out after being wrapped, carried out the back door and set atop the pile started at dawn. Kankri had seen the anguish on his mother’s face, her body still too weak to move, the infant clutched at her breast red in the face and screaming.

Kankri knew the very moment, nearly a week later, when the light died in his mother’s eyes. He told Miss Peregrine. He could tell she was exhausted, by the shake in her hands and the circles round her eyes, though she indulged the child of… five? Four? Father had known Kankri’s age… pulling at her skirts and telling her that his mother was dead with quivering lip. The matron had pecked a kiss to the boy’s head, told him to have hope. The sickness weakened with the coming of spring, and it was likely that his mother would survive.

Karkat was brought to Kankri that night, a squalling, tearful thing that resembled a potato with a bit of dark hair trying to break the confines of the dull grey rag blanket he was swaddled in. Miss Peregrine had watched him with sadness, but she needn’t have told Kankri why his brother was now free of the sick room

Kankri held the infant to his chest, back to the wall in the orphanage dining room as the others had chased him from the bedroom when his brother would not sleep, and murmured words of comfort into unheeding ears so soft and delicate to the touch. Eventually, Karkat exhausted himself, his single freed fist clenching and unclenching with dream. Kankri dared not move, merely watched his brother sleep.

“It’s just us, now, Karkat.” He whispered scarcely above a breath. “I’ll take care of you.” He vowed.

* * *

The temples were a place of solace for Kankri; there his mind didn’t wander to gruesome things quite so easily. He could kneel silently before the great effigy of the Frog, candles burning dimly and comfortingly. He hesitated for a moment before drawing a single copper piece from his belt, placing it quietly upon the altar. Karkat was like to scold him for squandering it.

It seemed none in the city had mercy for the brothers; the wealthy turned up their noses at a couple of filthy boys, the poor had none to give to just another pair of beggars in their midst.

They couldn’t go back to the shelter.

Half of the denizens thought Kankri mad and dangerous, the other half malicious, and a few here and there expressed only pity.

Kankri wasn’t sure if even Karkat believed he weren’t touched in the head. But he knew what he’d seen.

The girl, Damara, wrenching creatures from the inside out. First just small animals, then larger ones, and then people, all the while that doctor breathing down her neck, sneering.

Kankri shook his head to clear it, unable to stop a tear sliding down his cheek. His stomach clenched at nothing, his bones ached from sleeping on the ground, sheltered only when he and Karkat weren’t chased out of their lean-to of a cracked wooden plank wedged against a haberdashery.

Kankri ducked, wincing in anticipation, as he smelled blood, head falling forward in his hands.

_The slide of blade against skin, sensual, tearing once given pressure, bodies collapsing to the floor in pools of blood. Some still breathing shallowly, too weak to move but too strong to die. Thick, dark fluid leaked between the floorboards, trickling into the level below._

Kankri started at the touch of a hand on his shoulder, shaking him from the vision.

“Don’t be afraid.” A gentle voice said.

It was a young woman, black cloak hood draped elegantly over her dark hair, her face a lovely oval nearly the shade of the moon. “You see things, don’t you?” She asked, expression cautious, as though Kankri were a frightened animal. “Things that haven’t happened.”

Kankri shook his head defensively. “I’m no magi.”

“You’re not.” The woman agreed. “You’re a seer.” She stood, extending her hand to him. “I can help you.”

Kankri hesitated before giving her his hand, letting her help him to his feet.

“What is your name?” She asked, seeing the way Kankri shivered when they stepped outside and draping her arm and cloak across his shoulders.

“Kankri.”

She smiled. “It’s good to meet you, Kankri. My name is Porrim.”

* * *

Kankri spied his brother returning with Terezi from his window in the informal prison of the Seer’s Tower, two additional blonde headed figures in tow. He could sense the girl’s power even from here, a blinding light that washed him with warmth, though it left a dark feeling in his bones. He was reminded vaguely of- No.

He would not say her name, not even in thought. With what he knew of himself and his abilities now, it was too dangerous. _She_ was dangerous. Ones as powerful as she could be summoned at the mere whisper of their name, and she was like to bring her horrible, violent wrath upon him for what he’d done.

He had no doubt that five years had done little to cool her fury.

Kankri’s eyes ghosted over the other, a familiar yet still unpleasant feeling of his sight shuddering through him. A knight, and a danger to his brother if the right paths not taken. Kankri itched to just tell him, to _warn_ him, but Karkat always protested against such things. Rather loudly.

Kankri would watch. Hands clutched at his sides, he would watch, biting his tongue.

Besides, he thought as he turned from the window and to the writing desk.

He knew at least one knight who would read his letters before throwing them in the fire.

* * *

“Behold, the Seer’s Tower!” Terezi chirped with wide arm gestures toward the almost ornate structure on the eastern side of the castle, spiraling glass forming a shell over it.

Rose shook her head slowly. “This is incredible. I cannot thank you enough for offering us board here.”

“I’m always happy to meet one of my own.” Terezi responded. “And besides, Dave’s allowed to anyways. The palace quarters all freelance knights passing through.”

“All the same, very generous.”

Dave tuned out from there, instead examining the fortifications of the castle. Impressive walls, neatly organized watch, located nearly centrally in the city, and the glass touching nearly every part of the keep bearing a window made it difficult to scale and nigh on impossible to break into without drawing a significant amount of attention. His area of expertise on their mission certainly wouldn’t be to lay siege to the palace. Magical manipulation wasn’t Rose’s strength, passive as her powers were. Subterfuge, however, might be Cronus’ forte. Still, they had an entrance. Significantly better off than they were an hour ago… Shit. Cronus and Horuss.

He attempted to subtly draw Rose’s attention… ah, fuck it. “Rose.” He said, cutting off whatever Terezi was saying.

His sister turned to him, one eyebrow arched and a look on her face telling him she had far more biting words on hand than a saccharine “yes, David?”

Dave swallowed, his eyes darting briefly over Karkat and Terezi. “I just remembered, I still have check on the horses and see if I can get a refund on our rooms.”

Rose dipped her head in understanding. “Of course, I’d nearly forgotten. Ser Vantas, would you be so kind as to escort my brother and ensure he doesn’t lose himself in the city?”

Dave attempted to give Rose a subtle head shake, to which she responded with a subtle twitch of the corner of her mouth upwards.

The sullen knight, who had thus far kept silent from the marketplace, uncrossed his arms and sighed, turning back the way they came and not bothering to check if Dave was following him.

* * *

Sometimes, Dirk was quite certain that fate was just fucking with him. Probably got some sick thrill out of watching him squirm. Old Bilious probably floated his vision sphere through the folds of his existence and just. Fucking. Laughed.

Prospit was great, sure, nice city, whatever, unless one was probably the most valuable hostage to ever stroll down its streets. No big deal though.

After watching Rufioh bribe their way past the walls, the Weeaboos began to discuss their plans. Meulin and Nepeta were to go to the palace, and left it at that. Rufioh and Damara were going to visit ‘the old lady’, as they called their contact. Jade and Feferi were going to refresh supplies. Gamzee, as far as Dirk could understand, was going to “preach the righteous scripture to the unknowing”. Meenah, Vriska, and Roxy had decided to see what they could pick off the merchants in the market. Dirk’s sister had invited him along, but he had declined.

The fact that Captor’s prophesy was wholly fixed, wrenched nearly directly from the grasps of the damned made any action Dirk took from this point on redundant.

 _This is stupid._ He thought to himself, weaving through the throngs of people, using the palace in the distance to keep his bearings.

“-uch further-”

A snippet of conversation in a familiar voice froze Dirk in his tracks. He gritted his teeth, searching around quickly for a familiar blond head and then quickly dodging and ducking his way in the opposite direction. What was it, a hundred thousand people in the city? And he’d run into one of the four he was avoiding on his very first day.

Dirk felt his side begin to burn, but he kept his hurried pace. With Dave in the central market, there was no telling where the others could be. His best chance was to get to a less frequented district, find his way back to the Weeaboos in an hour or tw-

 _Clang! Clank! R-r-r-rattle._ And the quietest, “oh, shit.”

That was… ah. An entire chest piece of scale mail that Dirk had accidentally knocked out of some hapless squire’s arms and onto the street.

“Fuck, here,” Dirk said quickly, stumbling to recover a pauldron from the mud and hoping there was no damage.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” the squire attempted to wave him off, collecting the pieces in his arms.

Dirk glanced up. “Are you su-”

Dirk had always snorted at the surreal fantasy of true love; whatever magi might blow out their asses about it. Any literature mention was met with an eye roll. Love was not an instinctual response. Love was not burning butterflies in the pit of the stomach, nor a dry mouth and a feeling of giddiness.

That was just called a boner.

Dirk’s heart was pounding with a boner as bright green eyes stared back at him. Dirk couldn’t recall any certain fondness for green eyes, but not all green eyes made his cheeks heat up and his breath catch.

“Do you want me?” The other man was asking…

Shit, no, wait, fuck, that was wrong.

Dirk shook his head to clear it, closing his mouth with a snap, unaware he’d parted his lips to begin with. “What?” He said intelligently.

“Are you alright?” The green-eyed man repeated. “You didn’t hit your head when we collided, did you? You look flushed,” a warm palm pressed to Dirk’s forehead, the prince’s breath catching.

“I’m fine. Really. Erm,” he extended his hand. “Dirk.”

The other shifted what he could to one arm and clasped a calloused palm around Dirk’s. “Jakob.” He replied, smile bright. “English.”

Dirk quirked an eyebrow. “No relation to Lord English, by chance?” To be a squire, probably a third son or a second cousin once removed.

English winced. “Well, not exactly.” He rubbed absently at the back of his neck. “That would actually be, well, me, I suppose, heh,”

Interesting… Dirk dipped forward into a bow. “Forgive me, my lord.”

English shook his head quickly. “Frog, no, just Jake will do. Please.” He chuckled, a bit self-consciously. “I don’t suppose you’ve not heard the story of that?”

“I haven’t.” Dirk replied. “I’ve been away from the city for many years, and am not informed of the gossip.”

English gave him a somewhat relieved look, a smile, and jerked his head. “I don’t suppose you’d walk with me?” He proposed shyly.

“It would be a pleasure.” Dirk replied. “I wouldn’t even fault you if you wanted me to work any dents I’ve caused out of your armor.”

Jake glanced down at the scale, as though just recalling it. “Oh, no, this isn’t mine, this is… erm… well, that’s part of the other story.”

Dirk raised a hand. “Say no more. None of my business if you don’t want to tell me.”

Jake smiled gratefully, beginning to walk. A thought seemed to cross his mind. “You said you’re traveling?” Dirk dipped his head in a nod. “If you’re still looking for board, I’ve far too many empty rooms for my liking.”

Dirk smiled a bit. “I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first of the back stories, plenty more to come. But what the hell happened that made everyone in the orphanage hate Kankri? And what did exactly he see to make him so afraid of Damara? And why don't I know more about the succession of land in medieval times? And what the fuck is Rose plotting? But shout out to heart boners.
> 
> Leave a comment and tell me what you thought. <3


	5. Chapter Five

It had been a while, Rufioh realized, since the Weeaboos had come to Prospit. They’d been busy, getting chased halfway across Komikon. They’d been banished by the queen herself (always a privilege), and her honorable guests refused to sign anything of Rufioh’s so that he might remember the occasion. But they’d escaped, their ‘discount’ merchandise and lives intact, just in time for Derse’s summer festival.

They’d be back to Komikon next season. No matter what the queen or her guard did, the Weebs would not be kept out of Komikon.

That was good. He would have to remember that.

He tested the weight of the purse at his belt, all too accustomed to the pickpockets in the golden city, having broken a nose or two in his youth. The bare handful of gold jingled. Naturally, he had twenty times its quantity on his person, but the coin on his hip served as a diversion to any would-be muggers, the cavalry saber a deterrent.

A commotion was brewing in the commons beyond the gate, he realized, voices growing to the occasional crescendo and barefooted children chasing the excitement.

A white mare, as it would happen, was protesting quite spiritedly against the man attempting to subdue her, rearing back and snorting at him.

Rufioh grinned as he came up behind the young man (nice ass, handsome features) and put his hands at the base of the mare’s neck, stroking carefully and looking into one wide eye.

The mare nickered at him after she calmed, and Rufioh handed her reins back to her rider. A traveler, by his clothes. Rufioh gave only a wink, then left.

He’d always been good with animals.

The streets were still familiar, the front of the sign still cracked and in need of fresh paint.

Miss Peregrine’s home smelled of the mud and manure of the streets and the stew simmering inside. He unloaded the bags of coin from inside of his coat, and at last the one at his belt. With five loud, firm knocks at the door, he was walking down the street once more.

The palace training grounds were abuzz with activity, no one noticing just another face. He looked around dutifully, and… There. Just out of reach of the grounds, setting on the grass with a sickle and a whetstone. Rufioh approached silently.

“It’s me.” He said quietly as he plopped down on the grass, hearing Tavros’ sharp intake of breath.

“You’re back.” The younger brother said with excitement, careful by now not to draw attention to them.

“Sorry it took so long this time,” Rufioh said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “You know how Damara is with the city.” Not a fan overall of being set on fire. Plus, Jade and Gamzee were both still wanted criminals. Well, all of them were, but those two were especially wanted.

* * *

His first night after arriving (with a full entourage, mind you, that would have readily been able to cater to his every whim without Aradia’s assistance) had been memorable enough. During dinner with Prince Eridan, frankly, Zahhak had come off as a bit of a stuffed-shirt prick, though he at least knew which of Eridan’s buttons to push.

But the prince had sent Aradia off to serve him when dinner concluded, taking him to the chambers prepared at least a week in advance. The heavy door seemed thunderous as it closed behind them.

He stood stiffly as Aradia moved to help him undress. Why nobles didn’t just wear perfectly good practical clothing and skip this whole acrobatics session, she hadn’t the faintest.

His eyes were notably averted to the ceiling while Aradia’s fingers divested him of his doublet, lips moving silently. In prayer, she realized. Honestly, the way nobles went about, one would think nudity was the greatest shame. At the shelter in Prospit, Aradia and many of the other children would play in the mud during hot, humid summers, bare as the Frog and their mothers made them.

A bead of sweat worked its way down his neck and collarbone as his chest was bared, cresting what could only be described as an excessively chiseled pectoral, tickling as it skated over the nipple, she could tell, by Lordling Zahhak’s slight twitch.

Flush flooded Aradia’s cheeks at having caught herself ogling a noble. With spurred swiftness, she prepared Lordling Zahhak for bed.

“Aradia,” he said as she made to leave. Aradia froze. “It was Aradia, yes?”

The maid turned around to face him. “Yes, my lord.” A moment too late, she remembered to turn her face downward.

“Thank you.” He told her, voice giving no inclination of his mood. “You are dismissed.”

Aradia nodded, curtsied, and left.

Dick.

More than that, Lordling Zahhak liked to take walks, Aradia came to realize, through the halls, the gardens, the orchards, the training grounds, the stables. It seemed not to matter where.

And, as expected of her, Aradia was roused at dawn to accompany Zahhak on his jaunts about. Always just a step behind him and slightly to the left, she became a shadow bored out of her mind. At least doing her regular duties, Aradia could talk with the other servants. In the presence of Lordling Zahhak, she had to be composed and subservient at all times.

It wasn’t uncommon for her to find herself dozing standing up as he poured over a single rose bush for what seemed like hours, nothing for all the world more important.

She jerked herself awake silently, in one such instance, managing to make it look as though she were only fascinated with a cluster of lilies.

Aradia was disturbed from this by Zahhak clearing his throat. “Shall we venture on, Miss Aradia?”

Aradia gave a genteel smile. “As you wish, my lord.”

The next morning, the other serving girls were in a tizzy. A bouquet had arrived outside the quarters some time while they all slept, addressed to Aradia. The same lilies she had pretended to examine the day before, she realized, crisp white card proclaiming them merely from _E_ in dark blue ink.

He kissed her hand as she joined him for his morning walk, as though she were some courtly maiden rather than someone forced to be there for his convenience, though he said nothing of it.

Aradia would have to be naïve to think anything would come of this. A dozen subtle flirtations probably practiced a thousand times to the point of perfection, Lordling Zahhaks were a dime a dozen. It was the hesitation that really sold it, the air of _no, we must not, so great is the divide in our social standing! Swoon!_

She nearly rolled her eyes when his breath caught as she leaned over to refill his wine over dinner one evening, as though he were surprised by her presence, as though she hadn’t been attending him the entirety of his visit.

Speaking of which, when was he leaving?

It was enough Aradia was ‘elevated’ to the position of Prince Eridan’s official lapdog just for sharing a few features with the vanished daughter of a Baroness that the prince had been betrothed to once. Now he had her running around for the _most esteemed_ and _highly decorated_ cavalry commander of eastern Derse.

The expensive silken shawl delivered to the servant’s quarters she handed off to the maid who was to clean Lady Rose’s rooms. Such a flighty broad was the seeress, it would not be discovered for weeks after her return, then likely discarded as some trinket purchased on a whim in the past.

Aradia tossed the book of poetry into the kitchen fire as she fetched Zahhak’s breakfast the morning after that.

The jeweled necklace somehow found its way into a temple donation box.

Aradia would not submit to this man. Her pride was not a thing to be bought. She would bear it; present the courtly smiles and the civil “yes, my lord”s as he pleased. Her will was as strong as his.

* * *

Sollux kept his eyes closed as the music slowed, his head bowed and legs crossed beneath him. He felt Mituna’s fingers slide into his, both of them giving a squeeze to remind the other of their presence, to confirm that they would both go through this, no matter the flurry of nerves in their stomachs.

Together, as they always were since they had been borne of the same womb.

The sun beat down on their bare backs, stripped to the waist in leather leggings and fur boots.

There was silence as the shaman approached, kneeling in front of the two boys of 16 winters. By dusk, they would be men. Sollux opened his eyes, spying the blade of obsidian in the shaman’s hand.

Her tongue danced carefully over words of ceremony, a speech Sollux had heard only twice before, with different names substituted in.

It was Mituna she asked for his oath to their village first, being the elder brother. He agreed without hesitation, voice confident and clear.

Sollux watched from the corner of his eyes as Mituna’s chin was lifted by a pair of fingers, his mouth opened, and tongue gripped. Then there was the flash of the blade, and the hand around Sollux’s tightened substantially.

Mituna was silent, however. To cry out was a sign of weakness. Blood trailed down his jaw and neck, then onto his chest, and he was released, head dropping with a quiet exhale of relief.

Sollux pondered briefly things he hoped he would have no cause to miss. The sweet taste of honey. The silvery sound of incantations as he practiced. The feeling of the tip of his tongue sliding across the backs of his own teeth.

“I swear myself, body, soul, and mind, to my clan, until the end of my days.” Sollux recited when prompted, the words practiced for months prior, until he could nearly say them in his sleep. He didn’t flinch when his jaw was gripped and lifted, fingernails biting into Mituna’s hand as the knife slid with ease through the center of his tongue and he tasted his brother’s and then his own hot blood. For a moment of irrational fear, he wondered if it would never stop, and his entire tongue would be in two, or if the shaman’s steady hands would slip and he’d be left with only a back half.

She withdrew, and at last the cheers of the crowd echoed through the village.

Sollux turned first to their fathers, both looking at their sons with pride, then to his brother, grinning wide at each other even as blood began to dry tacky on their skin and their teeth were lined with rust.

* * *

The Lord of English’s armies swept across the land six years later, green banners becoming a certain prelude to death.

Their village was flammable. Archers fired lit arrows into the roofs, the first buildings collapsing around sleeping families. Sollux coughed through the thick smoke, linking his fingers with Mituna’s as the brothers attempted to crawl to somewhere safe, anywhere, to spot a familiar face alive enough to recognize them, to make sure their fathers were safe.

In the end, Sollux was caught in the swarms of soldiers, throbbing in his head as he was beaten to the ground, lying face-down in the dirt near the center of the village while he could see Mituna only a few paces away through dazed eyes, on his side. The world seemed to slow around them as the screaming of people and livestock pierced the air and flame and smoke billowed in the wreckage of their home. An unsteady hand reached for Sollux, and he responded in kind, their fingers not quite touching.

A hand gripped the back of Sollux’s collar, hauling him up.

He’d heard of the warlord. Of Lord English’s bloodlust, the single gold tooth catching the firelight. The embossed jade of his helm, carved in the shape of a skull, gemstones in all colors set around the eyes glittering fiercely.

Sollux glared, already feeling a barrier assaulting his magic. Lord English gripped his jaw, forcing his mouth open and observing the bifurcated tongue.

The warlord smirked as Sollux was dropped to the ground roughly, pain lancing through his ribs. “Filthy fucking snake.” He spat cruelly.

Every young magi will select one of the twelve energies to draw from. Sollux and Mituna were wombmates. Their decision must be mutual. They selected the power of Doom. Doom was a sense of dread, and those who succumb to it. The anxious twittering in the pit of the stomach at night, the cry of a freshly orphaned child on the Barren Plains as the vultures circle the fallen mother’s corpse. The lost, the hopeless, the damned. As such, their education warned them. Amongst the damned roved their captors, dark whispers all too content to lead others astray in their desperate confusion. Of course, the basest way to harvest the power of Doom was through blood, splicing directly from Doom’s opposite, Life. To sacrifice oneself as a mere puppet of darkness and be left with only what they deigned to surrender.

There are varied accounts of what happened that fateful day, lost in the clouded annals of history. Some say that Lord Caliborn English and his armies were at last overwhelmed by fatigue in his crusade-esque search for his sister and his purging of magi was stopped. Others that it was a great comet, sent by the Frog himself, to stop a tyrant in his tracks. Some rumored it was the pox that wiped them out.

Sollux looked at the screaming face of his brother as Mituna’s eyes glowed a dim red and blue, then everything was awash with heat and white.

Sollux came to perhaps moments, perhaps hours, perhaps days later, the earth around them scorched and dead. The great armies of Lord English were smoldering corpses, burned black beyond recognition. Everything was silent, not even ravens coming to pick at the carnage or a breeze to upset the ash.

Sollux looked around frantically. “Tuna!” He called. “MITUNA!” He tried again, voice cracking toward the end.

“Sol?” A small voice replied.

Sollux spun around, rushing to the side of his brother, covered in soot. He rolled Mituna over, watching the lights still flickering across his eyes.

The elder brother had tears trickling down his cheeks, creating trails in the dirt and ash. “Make them stop,” he mumbled. “Please Sollux, just make them stop.”

“Tuna,” Sollux whispered, pushing the hair back from Mituna’s brow. “What did you do?”

“They were going to kill everyone.” Mituna said. “They were going to kill you,” Mituna gripped the front of Sollux’s tunic in desperation. “I-I had to. I had to…” Mituna slumped over in Sollux’s arms, still breathing, but body worn. It was only later that Sollux learned exactly what deal his brother had brokered for their lives.

The years that each and every man on the battlefield might have lived had fate been kinder inherited unto their own lives, in exchange for the leagues of fallen souls. The ‘spirit’, as Mituna had described it, had claimed to have used his life force as a gateway, and the souls were his captives in a sense.

Neither of them knew what that meant until Mituna started to hear them, hear the wails of agony of English’s hordes growing to a crescendo at the base of his skull.

The two brothers scavenged what they could from the village, and they left.

* * *

Sollux shuddered as he emerged from his meditations, sweat clinging to his brow and breathing heavy. He jotted down what he had learned in his journal in the dead runes of centuries past. Information was useless if it were stolen, after all.

The sickly, leering face of Lord Zahhak was like to darken with rage if he learned what was to become of his family line. These nobles and their petty squabbles… the entertainment value almost outweighed the coin.

Mituna still slept, blessedly nightmare free, the fingers of dawn creeping through the windows.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cronus and Rose do some investigating, and eight years ago, the Weeaboos are founded.

The Golden Moon Inn was a fair establishment, situated on the edge of the market square and near enough the gates to draw in travelers. Ale flowed freely enough to lubricate tongues and pockets and inhibitions radically.

A good performer knew how to take advantage of such a crowd, teasing every whisper and flirtation and spare piece of gold to its fullest extent.

And Cronus was a _very_ good performer. He was in the middle of an epic when he caught sight of an emotionless crimson stare. Well, almost emotionless. For all the powers of façade the elder Strider possessed, young Dave’s eyes still gave him away. Cronus wondered why he didn’t wear a cloak to conceal his eyes. The sallow young man lurking behind him didn’t go unnoticed.

Cronus’ song finished out, and he gathered the coin and his tankard and made his way over to the bar. Dave joined him a few moments later, feigning awaiting the innkeeper’s attention while words passed between them, unheard by others in the din of the tavern.

“Change of plans.” Dave stated. “Rose and I are staying in the palace.”

“How the fuck did you swing that?” Cronus asked, draining the shoddy-quality tankard of the final drops of wine.

“Rose started chatting up a royal seer in the marketplace.” Dave explained shortly. “Might also have found one of our targets. Not the seer, that’d be too easy. The knight. The one I came in with.”

“Isn’t the point of having a seer with you being able to plan ahead for that?” Cronus asked cheekily.

“If she wasn’t so concerned with keeping me on my toes, it might be.” Dave answered. “No, having a successful mission is too easy. Gotta bring in contraband and take risks and surprise me at every single goddamn turn. Always with that little smile because she already knows how everything is going to work out and likes watching everyone dance like monkeys for her.”

“I’ll be here in the evenings if you need to get information.” Cronus said before Dave could get too far into his tangent. “Horuss is upstairs sleeping already. I’ll tell him about the change. Want me to send him your way?”

“No. If he comes into the palace, Rose’s new friends will get curious, and you know how he sweats under pressure. Just tell him to keep an ear out. We need to learn more about our target before we can do anything.” The innkeeper came around, exchanging a few baffled pleasantries with Dave over the weather before the knight returned to his companion and the pair left.

Digesting the information, Cronus accepted a fresh tankard of wine and returned to his table in the corner, strumming and watching the inhabitants of the inn.

A man in dull colored robes entered, sneering down his nose. A well-loved copy of the Writ of Croak was in his hands, and he began reading aloud verses at random, the tavern used enough to this to ignore him completely as he walked the room preaching the immoralities of drunkenness and slovenliness.

Cronus watched carefully as he came near.

Fine wool, even stitching. No ordinary priest, it would seem. Cronus’s fingers continued their playing, simple skips and steps in repose. “Any requests, Brother?”

“Not a brother. Merely a man of faith.”

“A man of faith wearing the crest of the tailor to the crown.” Cronus answered pointedly, stilling his hands to take up his tankard.

The man—boy, really—curled his fingers over the embroidered sigil on his sleeve; a self-conscious action.

Cronus smirked into his wine. Interesting. “‘A man ought be measured in deeds than birth,’”

“‘But I could never presume to understand that, having been born.’” The boy finished. “It’s rare to find a minstrel versed in the humanities.”

“Rarer still to find fair company.”

The young man’s shoulders stiffened. “If your interest in my company extends only to your bed, you will find yourself sorely disappointed, sirrah.”

A sharp tongue as well. _Who hurt you?_ Cronus wondered. _What’s your damage?_ “Duly noted.” He replied with a smile. “Won’t you sit and drink with me? Unless I am to find your table company unattainable as well.”

The young man considered this before pulling out the seat. “I’ll not drink.” He said firmly. “I keep a sound mind and pure body.”

“Like a temple, then.” Cronus smirked. “Charitable to all, a sanctum of peace.”

Something unreadable passed over the young man’s face.

“Though peace is tenuous under the best of circumstances.” Cronus continued. “The Exodus, for one.” He shook his head. “All the work tracking down displaced refugees and returning civilian prisoners, and for what? Call it a successful treat all you like but by the year’s end Prospit and Derse will be at each other’s throats again.”

“They won’t.” The young man hissed, startling Cronus with his sudden response. A faraway look glazed his eyes, unfocused on a knot in the wood of the table. “Golden soldiers will swarm like wasps and the lawless will gain power. Blood will spill blood and the golden kingdom shall lose a prince.”

A series of alarmed blinks seemed to startle the young man, light restoring to the maroon eyes. He shook his head quickly. “Forgive me, I’ve allowed my attention to wander. What was that you said?”

Cronus parted his lips. “All is forgiven. I was telling you of my journeys.”

“Ah, yes. I’m sure you’ve traveled widely to become as learned as you are.”

Cronus hummed. “Komikon, the Tyrrian Sea,” he listed, swirling his wine. “Derse.”

“The similarities between the kingdoms of the moons are astounding.” He continued. “The only great difference is-”

“The magi.” The young man interjected.

“Oh no, they’re the same wherever you go.” Cronus pointed out. “Derse has its share of healers and seers. It’s their reception that changes. The Seeress of the Spire, for example.” He darkened his voice, leaning in and nearly smirking as his audience of one did the same.

“Fair of hair, and pale. One would never take her to be a lady of the court. Her flat eyes strip you bare, arrogant smile on her lips, painted dark.” Cronus’s eyes flickered over the young man’s face. “Grandon, meanwhile, contents himself with collecting seers like dolls.”

“Dersian seers often consort with creatures of the Farthest Ring.” The young man countered.

“More than they do here, but still nowhere near a significant portion.”

“And you would have the knowledge of the seers of Derse and Prospit to make such an observation?”

“How am I to win their hearts, or their coin for that matter, if I can’t even understand the culture?” Cronus asked. “The history and legends. The reservations. The religion.”

“I’m afraid all I know of Derse has painted without either.”

“Hardly Frogless, and not nearly as debauched as some may wish. The liberties of the magi, of all men, are ordained by the Frog, are they not?”

“‘Unto mankind befalls the duty of vigilance; that the spirits of magic not rise up and conquer him.’” The young man quoted.

“‘And cast down shall be he who would abuse the sword or the spell or the tongue, for all harm is equal under the Eyes.’” Cronus shot back. “If magi are to be put to death for simply having the ability to abuse that which the Frog has given them, should not the executioner be as well, for knowing how to bear a weapon? The politician who writes the law, for knowing rhetoric?”

“Politicians rarely have the ability to engulf their enemies in flames.”

“You haven’t met many politicians, have you?” Cronus smirked.

The young man shifted. “You’ll excuse me, ser bard. I’m afraid the hour is late.”

Cronus smiled politely. “I never caught your name.”

The young man blinked once as he stood. “Kankri. Vantas.”

Cronus dipped his head. “Cronus. May we meet again, mister Vantas.”

* * *

Terezi talked animatedly of the seers’ tower as she and Rose ascended the stairs. Rose could barely focus. Since setting foot in the city, it seemed as though something were shrouding her mind. A blinding white haze blocking her from the light that gave her visions. She might have mistaken it for a migraine if it hadn’t lasted so long.

So distracted was she, she nearly ran right into an opening door.

Fortunately, someone was exiting so rather than bumping into a slat of wood, Rose just plowed into a person. Thank goodness.

The taller woman all but caught Rose around the waist, the seer throwing her arms around the stranger’s shoulders.

A pale face looked down at Rose, kohl-lined eyes jade green and fixed on Rose’s. The woman was beautiful, features elegant, black hair contrasting sharply with her skin.

Rose suddenly found her mouth dry, wetting her lips. Flush began to spread across her cheeks as she noticed the woman’s eyes dart to the motion.

“Perhaps you’ll be wanting use of my cane, Seeress Rose?” Terezi cut in, jerking the two of them back to their surroundings.

With a somewhat bashful smile, Rose stood, dipping her head respectfully to the woman in thanks and apology.

“The fault was mine,” the woman said, bowing in such a way that her dark robes spread. “Seeress Rose, I presume?”

“Indeed.” Rose answered, smiling. “Of-” somewhere wild and radically unknown, with enough religion mired into the people to imply her own piety. “Tehxis.”

Bowed eyebrows arched in silent intrigue. “I have read some of your homeland, but I am afraid I have never had the privilege to visit.” A small twinge of expression, a sense of melancholy coming over Rose. “But you must forgive me; I am Sylph Maryam.”

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Terezi drawled. “But your curfew is approaching, Kanaya dearest. Shouldn’t you be returning to your cell?”

Sylph Maryam—Kanaya—turned her eyes to Rose for a long moment. “Thank you, Terezi. I will depart to my quarters immediately.” Her lithe fingers slid between Rose’s for a brief moment, spark of emotion dancing up the seer’s arm explaining the over-familiarity.

Memory came to Rose from a life she had not lived; Porrim and the Sisters and touching silk in dress shops when no one was looking and healing cuts on a young man’s face before sending him into the night, knowing she would be severely punished if caught.

“It was lovely to meet you, Seeress Rose.” Kanaya bowed once more.

“And you, Sylph Maryam.” Rose responded politely.

* * *

Abed, Cronus reflected on the not-priest. Kankri. A seer, for certain, and in the tavern enough that regular patrons were aloof to him. He wondered if he might press his luck again, to learn what he could.

The smell of incense tickled his nose unpleasantly, and his attention was drawn once more to the man in the corner of the room. Stripped naked, dark hair tangled and wild as he prayed and burned his herbs, firelight stark contrast to the rain pouring down outside.

Thank the Frog Derse had few juggalos. Though, Cronus thought, flexing his legs and feeling the pleasant ache from getting solidly fucked into the mattress, they weren’t entirely without their merits. Something to imbibe of only rarely, however. His thighs were scratched up, his shoulder riddled with bruises and bitemarks, and the praying was getting gradually louder.

The premonition Kankri seemed to have unknowingly told stuck with Cronus, every word memorized. He was too accustomed to the double meanings prophecy contained. _Blood will spill blood and the golden kingdom shall lose a prince_.

“Blood will always spill.” The juggalo said in that macabre, loose way he had, and Cronus realized he’d spoken aloud. “Spilling blood is nice and easy-like for your blood because it’s their blood to motherfucking spill.”

“Blood, as in relations.” Cronus mused.

“Could be,” the juggalo agreed, nodding his head. “We’re all full of blood so we’re all relations, brother.”

Ah, there was the other reason Cronus fucking hated juggalos. Creepy bastards, every time.

* * *

Rose thought to herself as she lay on her sleeping pallet. She’d so rarely been among other seers that the latent energy of the tower was electric. She thought of Kanaya, the memories she’d been given. It was no simple matter to trade such things silently, even for a sylph. Theirs was a near fae magic, flowing around and through them instead of bent as witches did.

She closed her eyes and reviewed what she’d felt.

The fear when the guard had discovered her; when she’d discovered herself. Torn butterfly wings mended, the space miraculously restored. The sanction from the king, working at his beck and call. Curfews; after all, a magi as strong as a Sylph was not suited for the war engine; best she served here, under a watchful eye.

The aforementioned cell was nearer that of a priest than a prisoner, but still there was no talking within them. Night, after all, was the time of villainy. _When the Frog’s eye blinked he was blind for a moment._ A country proverb meant to excuse revelry, but rather in this cold place was evidence against Kanaya. Even the glittering casing of the towers, a beautiful and beloved sight, held a sinister purpose.

Rose came back to herself, floating from the memories Kanaya had shared as though on the surface of water. The floating gave way to pale sunlight, blossoming quickly into searing white agony, and Rose shot up, cradling her head between her knees as she bit hard on her lip.

These episodes were growing in intensity. Shockwaves throbbed through her temples, and she wondered if it would be too bold to request some wine to soothe it. Kanaya’s memories told her it was.

It was a warning; that much was clear. The passive magi were allowed to live, but were better off gone from Prospit.

Were these spells of pain part of the city’s wards?

No. At least, Kanaya hadn’t seen fit to warn Rose of them.

After a few moments, Rose lay back down, eyes blinking in the darkness in an attempt to cast away the white that stung behind her eyelids.

This was…powerful. It wasn’t of the light, the true Light, nor did it bear any resemblance to the grimdark that she’d once allowed to wet her tongue.

Terezi and Kankri hadn’t been roused by the commotion, she noted with relief. It was so easy to forget how vulnerable she was here. Especially with her sight dampened. She was, for lack of a better word, blind. Left adrift in this sea of enmity.

* * *

The rolling hills of the hinterlands near the border of Prospit and Derse were a fair enough place to raise a child, with its blistering winds and occupants speaking Beforan as often as not.

Damara had early memories of her father stirring her from bed not yet at the crack of dawn, the dew of the grass cool on her bare legs as she followed him out to the pasture to witness the lambing of the first of the ewes, two small feet appearing with a head nestled between them.

The tiny slits of the nose flared against the viscous fluid, the lamb’s first breaths shallow and quick. Readily, the ewe began to clean her child, encouraging it to suckle.

A ewe, Damara’s father told her as she stared deep into the lamb’s scarcely parted eyes.

The two of them returned to their wooden house, nearly crooked with its years of battling the winds, and met Damara’s mother at the hearth, who was stirring a great pot of wheat porridge with an infant swaddled tightly against her front, eyes closed and mouth sucking hungrily at her breast.

Damara remembered the gentle lines around her mother’s eyes, the ones around her mouth from smiling. Damara was hard pressed to recall a time her mother hadn’t been happy. Besides market days, of course. On the rare occasion that the daughter had ventured with her mother to the nearest village to sell their wool and milk and purchase the dry goods they would need for the following weeks, the spindly woman growing red in the face as she argued and bargained and haggled over each paltry copper piece that the stall keepers could no more spare than she.

Aradia was able to stand, but not walk, when Damara discovered her magic. The younger sister would hold onto the skirts and pant legs of others while they stood, dark eyes and wide smile.

It was healing that Damara found herself most drawn to, able to soothe pains and staunch bleeding. It was the most useful school she read of when her father was able to find a book for her to learn from, pages worn at the edges and leather binding ripped and mended in many places, the only such thing in their home besides their Writ of Croak, handwritten by Damara’s grandfather in Beforan.

Though, as her powers made the grass grow thick and wounds mend swiftly, Damara was drawn to the other practical schools. With a wave of her hand, she could conjure a flame, persuade wolves to run from their flock, even win others in arguments.

The magic of a little girl, however, holds little sway over the tides of war.

She remembered her mother ushering her out of the house, her sister clutched to her chest, and taking the both of them to the cellar.

The smell in the air before they disappeared underground was horrible. Burning wool, the sounds of the sheep screaming with fear, and then her mother’s kiss to her forehead and the promise pulled from Damara that she would not open the doors for anyone but her mother and father.

Damara passed the night completely in the dark, holding Aradia to her and murmuring soothing words as the young child cried quietly and the younger one bawled aloud.

She was woken from her shallow sleep by a heavy noise, her hands never moving to open the cellar doors but an axe demolishing it instead.

The brightness burned her eyes, making them stream while the rough hands of gold-garbed soldiers hauled her and Aradia up, despite the elder’s kicking and flailing against them.

The house was gone, only the stone hearth and a few burned out heaps of wood remaining. Perhaps the copper kettle would be somewhere, side dented and melted, the iron stew pot trapped beneath the wreckage. The sheep were strewn across the pasture, bodies blackened and being picked at by ravens. Damara hoped some had gotten away.

She was shoved into the back of a cart full of other children, many covered in soot and all of them fearful. She held Aradia in her arms, wiping away tears and murmuring lullabies into curly hair.

When the cart came along to another stop, another husk of a home, it was searched with no results. The next, the same, though a body was dragged from inside and laid out, clothes cut through in search of valuables.

The third house, a boy was pulled from, words intangible as he fought the soldiers and screamed. One brought his hand back, striking the boy on the cheek hard enough to send him to the ground.

Damara observed apathetically as something simmered inside her, a feeling she didn’t recognize. The soldier frowned, burying his head in his hands suddenly with a cry, then fell forward. Vomit spilled past his lips, dark colored with blood as his compatriots cried in alarm, forcing the boy to the ground and repeating a word that Damara did not recognize.

The usable timber from the boy’s home was piled together, a flint struck against steel and the flames stoked. The boy they threw in the fire, his wails of agony piercing the air.

The soldier was examined by the others, who came to a conclusion and tossed him onto the floor of the cart with the children, a fly taking up a place dancing across his eyeball.

Damara looked down at him, wondering for all the world what a witch was.

* * *

The orphanage was a… Place. Yes, that was a perfectly reasonable sentence, no need for an unnecessary adjective to spoil it.

Damara did not enjoy the home, but Miss Peregrine was gentle, pressing kisses to each and every scrape, cooking up a thicker stew than usual for the feverish, thin broth for the nauseous. The older children served as guardians and mentors to the younger, an unused hickory paddle hanging by a leather strap on a hook in the front room existing as the only reminder of discipline the children required.

Each night, when Aradia was put to sleep, Damara would press a kiss to her sister’s brow and climb into the great wide bed, waiting for the others to fall asleep before she would slip out of the little window, round little pebble fitted on the sill to keep it open far enough for her to fit her fingers in and pull it open again.

The streets of the city were a wild place, elaborate mazes of side streets her cover as she found drunken stumblers, watching them from the shadows as her brow furrowed. She thought of the soldier that had died, trying to pull forth and mimic what she had felt.

One person careened forward, palm of their hand resting against the wall of a building as they vomited, breathing heavily and wiping their mouth before continuing on their way.

Damara smiled softly to herself. Not even any blood that time.

A hand clasped over her mouth from behind her, dragging her backwards further into the alley as she flailed and squirmed, recalling with panic what the soldiers had done to the boy they had thought capable of magic.

“Shh,” a silver voice soothed, pulling her a bit into the light.

An old man, skin pale and head bald, eyes sharp and blue. He carried a cane, his clothing neat and expensive.

“A lovely little trick you’ve got there.” He said to her.

Damara shook her head. She told the gentleman she hadn’t done nothing.

“Anything.”

She requested clarification.

The old man looked at her with a strange sort of fondness that made her skin prickle. “If you didn’t do nothing, you did something. If you didn’t do anything, you must have done nothing.”

Damara narrowed her eyes, trying to pull her arm loose of his grasp. She told him to let her go.

Surprisingly, he did. “You have magic.” He said plainly, eyes darting up and down the alley cautiously. “Such a pity to waste it in a place such as here.”

Damara stared at him. She asked his name.

The old man seemed rebuked. “Of course, where are my manners?” He gave her a little bow. “Dr. Scratch, at your service.”

* * *

The very next morning, as Damara went about her chores, sweeping the dining room floor, the orphanage received a visitor. She stilled in her work, face pressed sideways to the floor so as to hear the words exchanged with Miss Peregrine, to see the polished shoes under the door. She couldn’t quite make out the words, only snippets not enough to determine the subject.

The pitch of the voice was vaguely familiar, a smooth nasal timbre. Surprise from Miss Peregrine, continued conversation. Damara turned away in disinterest. More likely than not the taxman come again to further bleed them.

The knock on the door startled Damara, and she quickly stood and picked up the broom, attempting to look as though she’d been working.

The door opened, Miss Peregrine on the other side, the good Dr. Scratch standing in the front room, looking for all the world maliciously gleeful like a cat pressing a paw upon the wing of a struggling canary.

Damara started her lessons the next day. Writing and reading and arithmetic, the orphanage mistress was told, perhaps the doctor’s apprentice if she should show an aptitude for anatomy.

Really, though, they did magic.

Damara showed the abilities she possessed, coaxing the herbs in Dr. Scratch’s garden to bloom fully and out of season, healed the cuts he would draw across his own hand until she was left exhausted, then one more at his insistence. She would rest, and they would have tea.

Though it was hardly her ‘parlor tricks’ of the candles fluttering out that drew his interest. He wanted her to stoke the fires of her grief and rage and shove irons on them for future use, to tightly leash them both, to use them at will on the rats he rounded up, to move the tiny animals as she wished like puppets, bound by the blood in their veins rather than strings, movements rigid and unnatural.

“Kill them.” Dr. Scratch said simply toward the end of their third week together, as the four rats danced before Damara’s eyes. “Make them drown themselves, or eat each other.” He stood, straightening his clothes. “We’ll try something larger tomorrow.”

Damara released the rats, watching them scurry, terrified. A flick of her hand, and four tiny heads twisted around and snapped four tiny spines.

‘Something larger’, as it turned out, was a stray dog. Mange pulled at its fur, snarling and straining at the rope leash ‘round its neck. Damara idly wondered how the doctor had managed to catch it and get it in the parlor.

“Calm it.” Dr. Scratch said, watching the creature absently.

Damara dipped her head in a nod, stepping forward as the dog cowered by her will, tail between its legs.

“Fear is useful.” Dr. Scratch commented idly. “It doesn’t do much for subtlety, however.”

Damara nodded at the unspoken order, trying to push kindness to the dog in the same way she did terror. All this did, however, was send it back snapping and growling at them.

She tried wearing herself out mentally, a sheen of sweat not long in glazing over her skin. All the while, Dr. Scratch watched silently.

Damara’s frustration swelled as she tried, at last breaking off with a sharp inhalation. Gritting her teeth, she reached instead for the dog’s blood, slowly easing it to close its mouth, lower its hackles, and follow the memory of the muscles into a nonthreatening stance.

“Blood magic is a useful skill, albeit a difficult one to grasp.” Dr. Scratch explained, suddenly looking over Damara’s shoulder. “But let’s move on to something a little stronger, shall we?” He gestured to the pair of armchairs, and they sat. Damara’s hold on the dog fell, and it shrank back in fear.

“What do you know of Time magic?” He asked as he refilled her cup of tea.

Damara gave a silent nod of thanks as she held the warm porcelain cup. The sum of her knowledge of Time was only glimpsing the odd illustration as she turned to other, more practical parts of her spell book. It had burned with her home, she realized.

“I think it would pair nicely with some of the skills you’ve learnt thus far.” Dr. Scratch took a sip from his tea before setting it down and gesturing to it. “Imagine what this tea will look like in an hour or so. Close your eyes and picture it. Imaging the tea leaves separating from the water, turning tepid.”

Damara inhaled and exhaled, slowly closing her eyes and doing as he said. She felt the tugging of the strings of magic, a slow build as warmth spread through her fingertips.

She opened her eyes, nearly starting in shock. The image she held in her mind was perhaps a few hours old. Before her, the tea was gone entirely, leaving a dried, filthy film where it had been in the smooth white porcelain.

Dr. Scratch ran a single finger along the rim, touching it to his lips.

“Weeks old, at the least.” He smiled in a way that wasn’t entirely comforting. “Well,” Dr. Scratch started, standing and lifting the tea tray. “I do believe we’ve found your school.”

* * *

That was the day she met Rufioh.

One of the new arrival children from the most recent of the dread Prince Dualscar’s campaigns was squabbling with contrary little Vriska, the girl bearing over the small boy and bullying him out of his slice of bread with sickly honeyed words in equal measure with malice.

Dr. Scratch had warned her time and time again of the dangers of drawing any attention to herself. She had to be careful.

A smile quirked her lips as Vriska cried out, stepping back from the boy and scrubbing at her eye.

“It hurts!” She complained, running off perhaps for Miss Peregrine, perhaps to sit and sulk through the discomfort of an only briefly enflamed blood vessel.

Damara smirked, noting the way an older boy approached to hand the bread back to the younger.

The older glanced up to Damara, giving her a curious look.

He introduced himself to her later in stumbling and improperly conjugated Beforan. Rufioh. He thanked her for being there for his younger brother.

Damara replied that she’d done nothing.

Rufioh thanked her regardless.

It was strange having a friend.

Many of the other children resented Damara for her fortune of having a distinguished doctor provide her with a formal education, and the standoffish behaviors she took up for it. Even Aradia had little kinship with her sister, sharing only a shepherd’s family name and having a relationship as close (or closer) with several of the other children.

Rufioh asked her for help. Wanted to learn better Beforan, he said. His father had been raised with it but hadn’t spoken it often. He said she was a good teacher. Damara felt an unfamiliar churning in her gut, though she said nothing.

One of the boys, a long-time resident of the orphanage, glared at Damara. She noticed it at dinner one night, but did nothing. His grey eyes seemed to follow her from then on, suspicious, fearful. She wondered if perhaps he knew.

“Highly unlikely.” Dr. Scratch told her over tea when she confided such in him. “As careful as we’ve been, I wouldn’t doubt he’s merely envious of your tutelage. It _is_ a rather advantageous position for an orphan to find oneself in, is it not?”

Damara nodded, though she was unconvinced.

Kankri, she found out his name was.

Rufioh poked fun at Damara, mocked her for her apparent obsession with a boy who, as far as he knew, had no reason to express any interest in her.

* * *

“There,” Dr. Scratch breathed into her ear, indicating a single figure, posture slumped, possibly a laborer. The street was empty, only a sliver of moonlight lighting the street.

Once again, Damara absconded through the window. She called on the doctor at two bells, as he had requested.

“That one there. He’s got coin in his purse, easily a victim of petty crime.” Slender fingers combed once through Damara’s hair. “Finish it.”

Damara tilted her head, fixing the figure in her gaze. Ever so carefully, she lifted her hand. Her hands grew slowly inward as she felt the blood loosen in her grasp, flow as she dictated. The man tried to fight against her control, tried to scream, but Damara closed off his throat.

“Neatness.” Dr. Scratch reminded gently.

Damara nodded. She slowed her breath, calming her nerves and forcing those feelings to rush over her subject. She could feel his mind begin to give against her will. Muscles succumbed to her wishes, though they remained tense, shaky.

“Good, good.” Dr. Scratch crooned. “Now, just as we discussed.”

Damara dipped her head once in nod, pulling her fingers inward, studying the subject’s face and imagining how that square chin might develop jowls, the hair thin and grey. Control. That’s what this was about.

“Stop.” Dr. Scratch commanded.

Damara opened her eyes, the hand on her shoulder guiding her out into the street.

The form of what once was a man lay on the cobbled main street of the old district of the city, skin shriveled to merely a casing for bone, eyes milky and still opened in terror.

Dr. Scratch knelt beside the body, reaching into the satchel at his waist.

A scalpel slid across the abdomen. A rolled up sleeve before the doctor pushed his hand up beneath the rib cage.

“Fascinating.” He murmured, drawing back a bloodied hand, beginning to clean it and thoroughly despoil a handkerchief.

Damara watched the display in silence, her lips pursed.

She caught something in the corner of her vision, and she turned around quickly.

A pair of grey eyes met hers for a fleeting moment, and then Kankri was running.

Damara bolted, following, unsure what exactly she would do once she caught up with Kankri. _If_ she caught up with him. Persuasion, perhaps, but to warp his mind, Damara sincerely doubted she possessed the skill.

So she returned to the orphanage, to the window held open by a pebble, and to her now cold bed.

* * *

Kankri did not meet Damara’s eye at breakfast. Rufioh did not question her silence nor lack of appetite. He gripped her hand under the table, and she returned it with a squeeze.

There was a loud commotion suddenly, a scraping of a chair on the wooden floor, and silence as everyone stared.

“Her!” Kankri said, and Damara looked up to see him standing atop the table, pointing at her and his slender body trembling with contained rage. Kankri’s younger brother grabbed his wrist, tried to urge him down, but he shook it off. “I have seen her! By the eyes of the Frog, I have seen the creatures she has tormented, the people she has killed with her master purring destruction and chaos in her ears. Tell them, Damara.” Kankri spat at her. “Tell them what you really are. Murderer. _Witch_.”

Damara could feel her bottom lip trembling. This could still work to her advantage. If she played herself the victim, their empathy for her would outweigh whatever suspicions anyone here held that Kankri, a standoffish boy who talked too much, could be right. With an exaggerated choked sob, Damara’s hands flew to her face to hide tears she was still willing into existence, and she fled the room.

The other girls comforted Damara while she forced herself to shivery pitifully on one end of the bed, unfamiliar fingers combing through her hair and muttering words of comfort, disregarding Kankri as mad or just cruel.

Kankri and his brother were gone by the end of the week.

* * *

The Weeaboos were powerful, though shunned, warriors of ancient Komikon. They roved in small bands before losing their identity to time, either integrating into Kon society or forming the lesser known tribes of Otaku.

Rufioh told Damara each and every one of those facts and many more at least four or five times a day. His coin earned porting goods for shopkeepers went into purchasing a volume of notorious criminals, with passable ink illustrations that he would surely smear if he kept on as he did.

He would spin tales for the younger children of an adventurous band of such rogues, slaying monsters and villains and discovering treasure.

He wanted to be like that, he confided in her.

A criminal? She’d asked. On the run from the law?

Rufioh had smiled and shaken his head. “I want to help people.” _Not like soldiers_ went unspoken between them, though Miss Peregrine had suggested it to him a dozen times. Soldiers fought wars for kings. A Weeaboo could fight wars for people. Damara could share that sentiment.

So much was his fervor for the tales he could spin from his book, that Damara was accustomed to not seeing him before she left for her lessons, paying for a night spent reading with a morning spent sleeping.

The doctor greeted her warmly at the door, bringing her into the front room rather than the parlor.

“This is a very special day, my young apprentice.” He told her. “Consider this a final test of sorts. If everything goes well, and I’m sure it will, I will go straight to your orphanage and adopt you so that we can further your education to the north, where the mage tribes once lived.”

Without fully understanding why, Damara’s heart started pounding. This was everything she could hope for. Finally free of that wretched place, in the care of her mentor and custodian, getting to see the lands that lay beyond the city.

The doctor walked her into his office, and her veins turned to ice.

A boy was bruised and bloodied, cut and beaten and clinging to consciousness. At his shin, the bone had been broken in half, protruding out the skin.

_Rufioh._

“I found him in the streets last night. I’ve done what I can, but your skills surpass mine in this matter.” Dr. Scratch said mildly, though Damara scarcely heard it.

Instead she rushed forward, immediately ghosting her hands over where the damage was the worst. The leg, and she carefully bent the bone back inside, grateful the doctor had insisted on simple anatomy lessons before allowing her to heal anything substantial.

She set the bone into place, working patiently for what must have been an hour as she stitched the marrow back together, sealing the muscle and skin at last. Then the bruises on his stomach and sides, where organs were in danger. The cuts last.

Rufioh was fully unconscious when she finished, panting and sweating.

“Well done.” Dr. Scratch said approvingly. “Now take him apart again.”

Damara turned to him in disbelief at what she had heard.

The doctor nodded.

“Picture him as he was before you laid hands upon him. It will be bending Time backwards again. Much more advanced than what you’ve attempted in the past, but I have complete confidence. He will likely succumb to his injuries, but that’s the price of excellence.”

There was numbness spreading all of her limbs, her mind seizing comprehension. It was as though she were merely watching her actions rather than causing them. She glared forward, Dr. Scratch’s skin crinkling and stubble growing transparent white from his jaw. His expression turned to one of malice as he realized what she was doing, eyes going rheumy.

The good doctor fell to his knees, skin weathered and wispy white hair grown from his once-bald scalp. He was very still, face twisted into fury and eyes unblinking. Damara stared at his dead face for several minutes, and realized she was freezing cold.

She waited until Rufioh awoke. She told him everything. Of her magic, of her lessons, of her experiments. She waited for his horror and rejection, but it never came. He took her hand in his, and gave her a tight smile.

“We’ll have to leave.” He told her gravely, then plastered a humorous smile to his face. “Still interested in becoming a Weeaboo?”

Dead mentor behind them, the doctor’s spell books in hand, and Vriska Serket beside them (though that’s another story all together), the pair fled the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back.


End file.
